


Where My Demons Hide

by allhalethekings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Bottom!Stiles, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fingering, Future Fic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Major Injury, McCall Pack, Oral Sex, Pack Feels, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Top!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allhalethekings/pseuds/allhalethekings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles moved to New York eight years ago, he had no intention of ever looking back at Beacon Hills again. That changes pretty fast when he gets a phone call from Melissa McCall telling him that his father’s been hurt. Suddenly, he’s on a plane back to a place he doesn’t want to be in and seeing people he has no intention of seeing - namely one Derek Hale.</p><p>-</p><p>
  <em> “Stiles, you need to come home,” she answers instead. He sighs inaudibly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Melissa, you know I can’t,” he replies and he wants to say more but he’s stopped short when he hears her sniffle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No, Stiles, you don’t understand. It’s your dad.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that’s how three hours later Stiles finds himself at the airport buying a one-way ticket to California for the first time in almost ten years. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This exists for the sole reason that I needed some good old angst in my life. And I decided that Derek/Stiles-related angst is the best kind. 
> 
> Title taken from Demons by Imagine Dragons.

Stiles grumbles as he slides back into his chair. He runs his hands through his hair, opening the case file on his desk once again. Today was supposed to be his day off but clearly it’s all hands on deck for this new case and he’s _exhausted_.

He had hopped on to this case for another Detective, taking it on as a special assignment, but after three hard weeks of practically no sleep, he’s seriously regretting his decision. In his eight years of living in the city that never sleeps, he’s never understood the meaning of that nickname more; he hasn’t slept in weeks. It’s his fourth year working with the 12th Precinct as a Jr. Detective but he has never seen more of a sadistic bastard than the guy they’re chasing this time.

A trail of dismembered body parts had been littered all over Manhattan by some psycho and the DA’s office has been pushing for an arrest for weeks now. It had started a couple of months ago when someone had found a leg – _just_ a leg – in the dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. In the weeks that followed, four such bodies had been found all over the city with a fifth one in the morgue, right leg and torso missing.

Stiles had seen a lot of gruesome supernatural deaths but even briefly glancing at the photographs of the crime scenes and various body parts made his stomach churn. Whoever committed these crimes were seriously looking to hurt, to scavenge. Everything about this screamed psychopathic behavior and it made him sick to his stomach realizing that they were nowhere near in catching this guy.

Of course, Stiles had briefly entertained the idea that it might have been something related to the supernatural, his teenaged days in Beacon Hills flashing through his eyes endlessly during sleepless nights. So he did what anyone in his position would do; he reached out to the Coonan pack – considered royalty amongst all of the New York packs – and asked about any rumours they might have heard. But they had no answers for him, not even with their seemingly infinite resources.

His swivels in his chair, biting the tail end of his pen, in a failing effort to concentrate on figuring out the pattern. So far, they weren’t even able to find out what connected all the victims or the crime scenes. It was starting to look like the anything they had in common was just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“You need to take a step back, Stilinski,” a voice interrupts his train of thought. Stiles swivels his chair around and leans back on it.

“Should I be concerned at how easily you’re being let up here, Coonan?” he asks instead, raising an eyebrow at his visitor who just smiles into his overpriced latte. Ezra is a fiend for sweet drinks so he wouldn’t be surprised if the latte was sweet enough to hurt his teeth but it does nothing to Ezra. It’s diabetes in a cup, Stiles had called it one time but Ezra had merely rolled his eyes in return. Stiles drops his pen on the desk, leaning back on his chair as he does so. “What can I do for you, Ezra?”

Ezra Coonan is charm personified; all dark hair, eyes so vividly blue that a person can just lose themselves if they look into them for too long, a set of beautiful broad shoulders atop a body that makes any normal person melt into a puddle of goo at the first glance.

“What? I can’t come see my favorite Detective?” Ezra shoots him a wide grin. Stiles rolls his eyes, huffing out a small laugh.

“Oh, I’m not falling for that again. Last time you sweet-talked me, I wound up in your research library for days,” Stiles replies.

“You were a lot easier to convince of my lack of motives when you first moved here.”

“I threw you a bone,” Stiles teases.

When Stiles had first come to the East Coast for college, barely a week had passed before he’d found Ezra – only twenty-one and a Beta at the time – on the other side of his dorm’s door. It only took a few seconds for Stiles’s werewolf radar to go off and though he’d tried to shut the door in his face, Ezra had already managed to worm his way into his room, requesting a meeting between Stiles and Elena Coonan, the Alpha of the Coonan pack.

He’d been surprised to find that they knew all about him, especially since he’d only been in the city for such a short time but looking back, it doesn’t seem so surprising anymore.

 _The infamous Stiles Stilinski_ , Elena had greeted him, warm smile on her face. _The human who’d dared to run with wolves when he was only fifteen_. Stiles had offered a thin smile in return. He’d been prepared for the usual questions (“Why are you here? Is anyone else with you? How long will you be staying?”) and answered each one patiently and dutifully. When they’d asked about his old pack though, he’d off-handedly replied that some things were meant to stay in the past.

Ezra shrugs, motioning to the case file after a moment.

“You’ve been eating, sleeping, and breathing that case ever since it crossed your desk. All I’m saying is that maybe you need to take a breather and come at it with fresh eyes.”

“Maybe,” Stiles nods, because Ezra is certainly right about that. “But that’s not why you’re here, Ezra. So what can I do for you?”

Ezra’s lips quirk up at the corner and he takes another sip of his latte. But it’s the slight shift in his demeanor – shoulders tensing, fingers gripping the coffee cup a bit tighter, teeth clenching – that brings Stiles leaning forward in his chair.

He nods at the empty chair by his desk, motioning Ezra to sit down. Ezra’s eyes flicker around the room very quickly, as if to take in their surroundings before he leans in towards Stiles. Stiles becomes wary; he knows that look all too well.

“There have been some…reports,” he starts. “From California.”

The instant Stiles hears California, he withdraws back into his chair. It’s like a huge flashing red light goes off in his head because he knows. Ezra’s words say California but what he really means is Beacon Hills and – nope. It raises his hackles a bit, hearing Ezra talk about California seeing as how he’s one of the only people who knows what a sore topic it is for Stiles. As such, Stiles begins to shake his head almost immediately, ready to tell Ezra that he doesn’t care about California but the werewolf holds a hand up.

“Just listen for a second, Stiles. There’s been a sudden influx of activity there.”

He doesn’t care, it’s true, but there’s something in the tone of voice Ezra uses that gives Stiles pause. He doesn’t want to ask but he does because regardless of what may have happened, he still has to worry about his dad.

“What kind of activity?”

“Magic - lots of it. Similar to what happened almost ten years ago with the Nemeton but much darker this time,” Ezra murmurs grimly. “Remember that, Stiles? The Darach making all those sacrifices? You, Scott, and Allison making one in return to save your parents and how that opened the door in your mind to the Nogitsune? That’s the kind of magic I’m talking about.”

“Another possession?” Stiles asks, alarmed. Lydia hadn’t mentioned anything on their last Skype date. Granted that was also almost two weeks ago so maybe things have taken a turn for the worst. But even then, she keeps him fairly updated on the general stuff about Beacon Hills, if for no reason than to assure him that his dad is still doing good.

“Not quite but any supernatural activity exudes a type of magical energy – you know this,” Ezra starts and continues when Stiles nods his head. “The amount of energy that’s being broadcasted is telling us that something big is happening. Something that we need to stop.”

Stiles leans back in his chair and rubs a hand down his face. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all but it quickly dies in his mouth. It’s a while before either of them says anything but Stiles knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

Behind him, the clock ticks away, seconds passing into minutes of a slightly awkward bout of silence. The general lack of noise between the two is only interrupted by the low murmurings of the police precinct; the phones ringing away, the idle chatter coming from the break room, the rattle of handcuffs clicking together as a couple of perps are escorted into the precinct.

Eight years – eight _long_ years – have passed since Stiles had stepped foot in Beacon Hills, leaving behind all of his family, all of his memories, all of his ties to the town when he’d moved to New York. And now there’s a chance he has to go back.

“So what do you want from me?” Stiles asks, fiddling with the burgundy tie his dad had sent to him a few weeks ago as an impromptu gift. He wrings his fingers together on his lap, staring off at the wall behind Ezra with wide eyes.

Ezra gives him a long look before directing his gaze to the case file on the desk.

“I think it’s time you check in with your pack.”

Stiles gives him a harsh look. “My _ex_ -pack and absolutely not.”

“We just want you to reach out—“

“Answer’s no,” Stiles grits through a clenched jaw. “After what they did, there is no way in hell I’m talking to any one of them.”

“You have a great relationship with Lydia.”

“A relationship that’s based on never talking about the rest of them,” Stiles returns easily.

“We need to know if it’s something we need to worry about here,” Ezra argues but Stiles shakes his head firmly.

“You have ways to deal with it that don’t involve me going back to Beacon Hills. That chapter of my life has been over for a long time and I’m not in the mood to reopen it any time soon.”

“We don’t want you to go back to Beacon Hills,” Ezra says, waving a hand dismissively. “You’d be in danger and besides, we’d like to keep you here to help _our_ pack prepare for whatever it is. What we want you to do is reach out to someone you still have ties to there – “

“Like my dad,” Stiles interrupts, realization dawning on him. His heart settles; he can do that.

“ – or Alan Deaton, yes, and see if you can get any information that might be helpful to us. If there’s a small chance that whatever is happening _there_ can cross over _here_ to this side of country then we need to be prepared,” Ezra pauses for a second. “We need to protect the other packs here. It’s how we have maintained peace between all of us for so long. Our pack is strong and powerful and the smaller packs look to us for protection.”

Stiles considers the request for a moment before he nods, noting the look of relief that passes through his friend’s face.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmurs finally. After all, if they don’t want him to go to Beacon Hills, it’s not as bad as it sounds, right? Besides, Stiles calls his dad every other day anyways so he’s due for a phone call later tonight anyways.

Ezra, however, has other plans in mind because he doesn’t leave, giving Stiles an expectant look. Stiles sighs. “Would you like me to call now?”

Ezra gives him a smile, making Stiles roll his eyes in response. Stiles moves forward to reach for the phone on his desk but gets interrupted when his personal cell phone begins to ring – the familiar tune of the Game of Thrones theme song fills the air. Ezra snorts. He fishes the phone from his back pocket, picking it up without looking at the caller ID. He wishes he had the second he hears the voice from the other end.

“ _Stiles?_ ”

Stiles frowns, caught off-guard. He hasn’t spoken to Melissa in a long time so he has no idea why she’s calling him. Stiles misses her like crazy but after leaving, he was just never able to speak to her so after a few initial phone calls, he’d stopped. It was one of the suckier things to happen after he left, losing touch with the woman who practically raised him after his mom died. Now, he just hears about how she’s doing from his dad. It’s been a long time since he’s heard her voice and it makes Stiles nervous.

_“Stiles, are you still there?”_

Stiles snaps out of his thoughts. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, Melissa. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

Ezra shoots him a questioning look and Stiles shrugs in return, just as confused as the werewolf.

“ _Stiles, you need to come home_ ,” she answers instead. He sighs inaudibly.

“Melissa, you know I can’t,” he replies and he wants to say more but he’s stopped short when he hears her sniffle.

_“Stiles, you don’t understand. It’s your dad.”_

 

And that’s how three hours later Stiles finds himself at the airport buying a one-way ticket to California for the first time in almost ten years.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“I have to go,” Stiles mutters, throwing a few shirts into his bag.

“An hour ago you didn’t want to set foot in Beacon Hills,” Ezra replies from the doorway. He’d followed Stiles to his small apartment in Queen’s, calling Elena on the way to alert her on the situation.

“An hour ago I wasn’t aware my dad was in the hospital.”

Stiles moves quickly, shoving clothes in his bag carelessly. There’s urgency in his movements, like a fire being lit under his feet or like he’s been stepping on hot coals. He makes a mental checklist of everything he needs – passport, cell phone, charger, wallet – before he turns around, duffel bag in his hand, ready to go.

“I’m not stupid enough to stop you,” Ezra says. “But I want to come with you.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Never said you did,” the werewolf counters easily. “Elena would want the same thing. And if you don’t believe me, call her.”

“Elena doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as you think she does. She’s not my Alpha and I’m not a part of her pack.”

“It’s not about being pack. I’m not telling you to ask permission to go so I can escort you,” Ezra replies, straightening. “It’s about making sure you make it out of there alive. You need backup because you’re about to go in blind with people you don’t trust.”

“Why does Elena care so much about what happens to me?” Stiles asks, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. He stalks out the door, not looking to see if Ezra’s following because Stiles knows he is. The door locks behind them automatically.

“You may not be pack and Elena may not be your Alpha but you are important to her – to _all_ of us,” Ezra corrects. “We need you alive.”

“You’re still not coming,” Stiles says finally, jutting his chin up and looking Ezra right in the eye. Ezra cards a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Fine,” he huffs. “But you keep me updated every day and the second something happens, you need to call me.”

“Fine.”

 

It’s by sheer luck that Stiles manages to get a seat on the next available flight to California, the last remaining seat on a plane that departs in just a couple of hours from the time he gets to the airport. His Captain had understood and had waved him off when Stiles had tried to apologize for the short notice, only voicing his concern for Stiles’s dad.

But there’s a sickly feeling in his stomach that begins to form the second Stiles starts to think of Beacon Hills. He hasn’t been back ever since he moved and now, even the thought of setting foot on a plane fills him with dread. Now, he’s forced to go back to a part of his life that he’d shut away in the darkest part of his mind.

Naturally, Stiles is restless throughout the entire plane ride. He can’t sit still and he’s terribly apologetic to the woman sitting beside him but she doesn’t seem to mind it too much, mistaking his twitchy behavior for just nervousness at flying. Only an hour into the flight, he’s already downed two whole bottles of water, fidgeting with the paper wrapping in an (somewhat) failed attempt at keeping his mind from wandering too far.

He takes a deep breath, stretching his neck muscles and begins to count down from a hundred under his breath slowly. There’s another three and a half solid hours before they land, maybe a nap will help him ease up a bit. Stiles closes his eyes in an effort to fall asleep but the way that his heart pounds in his chest, he knows it’ll be unlikely that he’ll actually get any real sleep. Thankfully, it’s not long before he begins to drift off.

 

_He wakes up with a gasp, eyes wide and blinking at the sudden brightness around him. The sudden influx of auditory and visual stimuli send his mind reeling in multiple directions and he keels over the side of the bed, dry-heaving. He closes his eyes almost immediately, unable to take the bright lights. Stiles tries to take in a few breaths but his breathing turns shallow, heart rabbiting in his chest._

_It feels like he’s on the cusp of death, little rivulets of sweat forming on his temples. Maybe this is the room with the bright lights that everyone finds themselves in right before they fall over the metaphorical cliff. He’s scared for a second but surprisingly, relief fills him when he realizes this might mean he might see his mom again._

_But then his other senses kick in properly and it’s then that he hears nurses and doctors running towards him. He blinks open his eyes, struggling to adjust to the lights. Everything is blurry around him, white shapes moving over him, poking, prodding, shining more bright lights in his eyes. Every part of his body wakes up almost at once and Stiles feels every touch, every poke on his body._

_“—you hear me?”_

_“Heartbeat’s beginning to steady – Stiles!”_

_Voices call his name but he doesn’t recognize any of them._

_His mind is still hazy, everything around him is present only in small bursts of movements or noise which blend together at first but the more he comes to, the more he starts being able to distinguish between the sounds. Somewhere behind him, the machines beep constantly and his efforts to rise out of bed get disrupted by the flurry of hands that push him back against the bed._

_It finally clicks in his brain—the hospital. He’s probably in the hospital. He stares at the white ceiling and opens his mouth to talk but falls away into unconsciousness before he can get anything more a few garbled sounds out._

_When he wakes up again – and stays awake this time – he’s told that he’d been out for almost a month. He’s lost a whole freaking month. The doctors keep talking around him but Stiles can’t help but wonder how many things changed in that one month. How’s his dad doing? How’s Scott? Derek? The rest of the pack?_

_It takes a couple of hours before his father is allowed to come in the room to see him. His dad begins to cry when he sees Stiles smile at him and soon, Stiles is crying too, fat ugly streams of tears running down his face. His dad tells him that Stiles had come into the hospital with four deep claw marks on his chest, losing so much blood that all his doctors doubted his ability to survive the night._

_“But I told them you’re fighter,” his dad reassures him through a watery smile. “You don’t give up too easy.”_

_Stiles tries to laugh but his chest hurts so much that he settles for smiling._

 

There’s a thin layer of sweat on his forehead and his hands are clutching the armrests tightly when he blinks open his eyes. Thankfully, the woman beside him is fast asleep, seemingly unaware of everything around her and when Stiles notices how peaceful she seems, he can’t help but feel a little jealous. The watch on his wrist tells him they’ll be landing soon and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

Try as he may, there’s no real way of preparing himself for what lies ahead. For all that Stiles likes to claim, he knows deep down he’s never going to be ready to see them all again. It’s a wasted wish for him to hope that he can get away without seeing any of the pack (except maybe Lydia) until his dad is better, especially considering the second reason for his visit – the more supernatural reason.

When he finally lands in California, he’s tired and exhausted from the flight. He was never a good traveller, being stuck in one place for hours on end was always his kryptonite and as much as he’d love to say that honing his magical abilities helped with his concentration, they didn’t solve all of his problems. It’s a while before he’s able to collect his baggage so he takes the time to quickly text Ezra.

 **< Stiles, 5:42pm:** Landed in SFO

 **> Ezra, 5:43pm:** Okay. Drive safe

 

The weather outside looks colder than he prefers so he’s glad he packed a couple of sweaters in his bag. Stiles wraps his jacket a little tighter around his body, inhaling the fresh, Californian air. Having lived in New York for so long, it’s almost a new experience to be back here. It is true what they say, he surmises. There’s something different in the air when you travel from the East Coast to the West Coast.

Unlike in New York, the slightly chilly breeze doesn’t cut into his bones. Instead, he feels an odd sense of relief at being back; almost like his body itself is heaving a sigh of relief at being home and it surprises Stiles as to how stable he feels instantly, considering his state of self on the plane.

It isn’t long before he gets a rental car through one of the rental agencies and he’s racing his way through the highway on road back to Beacon Hills. Sliding back into the driver’s seat of the five-year old Prius only makes him miss his Jeep even more. When he moved to college, it just wasn’t feasible for him to drive up with his Jeep since it could barely handle being driven around Beacon Hills but his dad had promised him he’d take good care of it in his presence.

It’s a few hours into the drive that Stiles passes a large, glaringly blue _Welcome to Beacon Hills_ sign and he finally understands what Ezra had been talking about. He’d barely crossed the border but he starts to feel a little something under his skin, his own magic thrumming in response. At first, it’s just a small but tight tug, like someone’s pulling him farther and farther into something but in just under two minutes, the tug becomes a wave of fresh, almost pure energy. It’s a feeling so powerful that he’s almost blinded by the sheer force of it all so much so that the car nearly swerves off the road.

Heart pounding in his chest, Stiles carefully navigates the car on the road, trying to contain the power surging through his body. Once he’s settled, a thought occurs to him and he mutters a few words under his breath. It’s a neat little trick that Deaton had taught him years ago – learning how to conceal his scent so he doesn’t give himself away if the need ever rose.

After all, Stiles may be back but it doesn’t mean he has to broadcast that to the resident wolves.

As he gets closer and closer to the town, the vast fields of green slowly turn to small buildings; first there’s a gas station attached to a small diner, then a coffee shop, and then a bus depot a few miles down from that. Stiles follows the road he’s on, forgoing the intersection he would have turned at to get to his house and instead drives straight to the hospital.

He pulls into the hospital parking lot just as the sun sets, practically flying into the building. The nurse at the Nurse Station just gives him a short glance before holding a finger up and going back to her phone call, muttering something about patient in neurology.

He narrows his eyes at her, not that it does any good because her attention is focused on the computer. Stiles sighs impatiently, drumming his fingers on the counter, barely fighting the urge to scream at her. He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin; he’s been scared of his day ever since he was twelve and he was reminded quite harshly at how incredibly mortal his dad actually is. Growing up, his dad was always a superhero, clad in his khaki uniform, fighting for justice, righting wrongs, and protecting the town. But at twelve, when his dad had been hospitalized after a routine domestic call had gone wrong, Stiles became painfully aware of the fact that his dad was a superhero in every sense but one; the ability to get hurt and _be_ affected by it.

It was one of the biggest reasons he’d kept his dad in the dark about werewolves in the first place. If his dad got involved – as he did later – he wouldn’t have the supernatural ability to heal just about anything, like the wolves did. He’s still human and as powerful as Stiles might be, he can’t bring someone back from the dead.

If he’s being honest, Stiles will admit that he’s gotten used to hospitals after Scott got bit and their lives changed forever. Technically, he got used to hospitals far earlier than that but they became almost a regular stop on his GPS after the frankly abrupt introduction to werewolves.

But today is different. Today, he isn’t used to the hospital, isn’t used to the familiar smell or the hustle around him. Today, he feels like he’s ten again, on one of his umpteenth visit to see his mom.

He struggles to fight back the tears once again, blinking his eyes rapidly if only to make sure they don’t roll down his face this time. He’s gone through all this with one parent already and he isn’t ready to go through this again with the only family he has left. He can feel the beginning of a panic attack rippling through him and it takes all his might to force it down. He needs a clear head for his dad. He can’t fall apart without making sure his dad’s okay first.

The nurse is still chattering away into the phone and Stiles opens his mouth to demand her attention when he feels a gentle pull on his arm. He turns to see Melissa giving him a relieved smile. For a second he doesn’t know what to do but before he has a chance to do anything, she wraps him in a tight hug.

“How is he?” he asks, voice wavering, tightening his hold on her. The subtle scent of lavender and daisies and vanilla fills his senses and he calms almost instantaneously. Melissa runs her hands up and down his back before pulling away, reassuring him with a soft smile.

Stiles looks at her, he hasn’t seen her in years but everything about her is exactly the same. Perhaps the wrinkles around her eyes are a bit more set in their ways and she’s got a few greying hairs around her temples but everything important about Melissa McCall has remained unchanged; the kindness in her eyes, the warmth in her hugs, the feeling of reassurance in her smiles.

“He’s stable. They brought him just before I called you. It looked bleak for a second but he seems to be doing okay right now.”

He listens to her as they both rush to his dad’s room, feeling a little sated at her words. They stop in front the last room in the hallway.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Stiles asks finally when he finds his voice again. Melissa gives him a watery smile and nods.

Stiles gives her a smile in return and takes a deep breath before opening the door and walking in. A gust of intense emotions flow through him when he sees his dad – his strong, _brave_ dad – sleeping on the bed, tied to at least four different machines.

Anger, hurt, fear, paranoia, distress. He feels ripples of his magic flooding through his veins, itching to just snap out of him in an immediate response to his emotions but he reins it back into his control, not before the lights in the room flicker a couple of times though.

Stiles crosses the room to stand by the side of the bed and it’s not until he finally sees the steady rise and fall of his dad’s chest that he finally breathes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be friends on [tumblr](http://hales-republic.tumblr.com)! We can chat about Teen Wolf, the wonderful sunshine and rainbows that is Tyler Hoechlin, and life in general :)


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles stays the whole night, holding his dad’s hand in his, afraid that if he let go, his dad would vanish into thin air. Feeling the weight of his dad’s hand kept Stiles sated, reminding him that his dad is still present in front of him, still right there, alive if nothing else. Visitor hours had been over for hours and every minute that the minute hand ticked closer and closer to eight o’clock, Stiles would worry that a nurse or doctor would come in and tell him to leave. But when nobody came at eight, then nine, and then ten, Stiles was finally able to breathe easy and it occurred to him that Melissa probably told the other nurses to let him be.

The thought of it makes Stiles cringe in his seat and he stares at the door, shame-faced. It makes him angry thinking of how he’d cut off contact with Melissa when he left and how undeserving of that she was. She had always treated him like a second son and even to this day, she had given him space. Even when she called him about his dad and when she saw him earlier, there was no coldness about her when she spoke to him. She’d treated him with the same amount of kindness that she always had.

Stiles sighs, carding a hand through his hair before rubbing small circles at the back of his neck. He’s getting awfully exhausted now, interrupted by his yawns every so often. He turns back to his dad one last time, squeezing his hand in reassurance, before sliding down the chair just enough to lean his head back and closes his eyes. Stiles falls asleep easier than he expects.

 

The next morning, he wakes up to Melissa gently shaking him. It takes his eyes a few seconds to focus and they snap back to the bed in hopes that his father might have finally woken up but no such luck.

“Honey, I think you should go home and freshen up,” she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair.

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, feeling a sense of déjà vu. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s experienced this exact moment – Melissa running her hands through his hair, comforting him, urging him to take a break and going home – once before. Only that time, he was ten years old and it was his mom lying on the hospital bed instead of his dad. The thought of it is enough to make his eyes tear.

Stiles nods passively, his eyes still on his dad. “He’s going to be okay, right?” he asks again, finally looking at her through watery eyes.

Melissa gives him a small smile and he crumbles down, wrapping his arms around her waist and his head falling against her chest. She winds her body around him just as easily, leaning down to rest her chin on his head. It’s a reassuring position; Stiles feels like he’s back to being a ten year-old kid finding comfort in his second mom. He sniffles into her neck, tightening his hold on her.

“I don’t want him to die,” Stiles whispers, tears beginning to fall down his face. He feels bad that he’s ruining Melissa’s scrubs but she only tightens her hold on him, rubbing his back in comfort.

They stay like that for a while before she finally manages to usher him out of the room.

“Go home, freshen up, get some food in you, okay? Have you even eaten anything since you landed?” Melissa asks. Stiles gives her a one-shouldered shrug, following her quietly.

She insists on driving him home herself since her shift was over too but he tells her that he has to return the rental car anyways so it’s just easier for her to go home instead. He has to promise to call her if he needs anything before she finally agrees.

“And Stiles?” She smiles hesitantly when he turns back around. “You can always come over to our house if you need company, okay?”

Stiles nods; it’s a nice sentiment but they both know what his answer is going to be so he opts to smile instead and moves in to give her another hug before they part ways.

Once he returns the rental car, he cabs back to his house and steps foot in his childhood home for the first time in _years_.

The house is quiet around him, the only noise coming from the faint ticking of the clock in the living room. Stiles closes the door behind him, walking farther into the house. He breathes in the familiar air of his childhood home, slowly and deeply. Thing is, he expects to be hit with a sense of nostalgia or even regret, but he feels nothing. Stiles wanders into the living room, eyes flicking over the familiar brown couch, the old coffee table lined with old condensation stains, to the vintage grandfather clock his mother had gotten for his dad for their third anniversary present. The longer he stares at all the seemingly meaningless – but clearly _not_ – items, he gets it.

Nothing _looks_ different but everything is.

All the pieces of furniture, all the wood, the carpet, the ceramic figurines placed over the fireplace; they’re all old and worn down with age, almost dull in their essence. Stiles steps backwards, leans against the wall by the entrance to the living room and he understands what it is. The room lacks life, lacks color. The longer he stares at the room, the more he can begin to hear the faint murmurs of old conversations, of old laughter. He can almost see the old memories and it saddens him to the core.

This is what he abandoned when he left for New York.

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threaten to fall, and slowly forces himself to focus on what he needs to get done at the house. He walks back into the foyer, drops his keys into a small, decorated metal bowl by the front door and hangs up his jacket on the coat hook in perfect fluidity, like he didn't even have to think about it. The house is a tad cold, probably because nobody’s been home to turn on the heat so he does that first.

Stiles moves his bags by the stairway before walking to the kitchen to see the state of affairs. First things first. Rays of early morning sunlight dance around the kitchen floor, thanks to the window over the sink. The natural light reflects brilliantly sink and a couple of stainless steel appliances that it brings light to the entire kitchen.

His eyes roam over every spot of the kitchen, from the vat of dishes that need to be put away to the neatly lined up spice jars in the corner of the granite countertop. His dad had kept everything the same as how Stiles had left it. He aches at the thought.

Stiles moves further into the kitchen, running idle fingers over the countertops, turning around every once in a while as if to feel comfortable moving around in a kitchen that’s been his since his mom died. His stomach grumbles, like it knows where Stiles is, and he’s reminded that he has yet to eat anything since the day before.

And as much as he wants to focus on being there for his dad, Stiles knows he can’t rely on the hospital cafeteria alone. Quickly scanning the cupboards and the fridge (and smiling with pride when he realizes that his dad has managed to stick to the diet despite his absence), he makes a mental checklist of everything he needs from the grocery store.

Once he’s done inspecting the kitchen, he moves to go upstairs but stalls by the edge of the staircase, looking up at the empty hallway. Stiles shakes off the nervous feeling at being able to finally be in his old room and climbs upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. He pauses in front of a familiar closed door for a brief moment before rolling his shoulders back and opening the door.

Stiles exhales a shaky breath as he steps inside the room. Everything in his room is exactly as he left it; the posters, the twin bed, the desk, hell even the bed sheets are the exact same. Then again, it’s not like he’s surprised. His dad is a sentimental man; after his mom died, his dad had refused to even touch her side of the closet and the bathroom sink.

He’d brought his bags along with him but he places them aside and much like he did in the kitchen, he takes a moment just to stand and look around, like he’s trying to familiarize himself with everything again. The walls are a bit dusty but other than that, it looks like his dad had been taking impeccable care of the room. Stiles turns around, notices his version of the murder board just across the bed, only now it’s just a blank corkboard littered with tiny little holes. He touches the board, running a couple of fingers over it, cherishing in the callous-like texture of the board.

Stiles looks down at the small bookshelf directly under the corkboard and notices a small basket with red, blue, yellow, and green strings tangled together under a bed of pushpins. He smiles wryly to himself; some things never get old. His stomach grumbles again, breaking him out of his reverie and he unpacks as fast as he can. As much as being back in his childhood home makes him feel at home, it also suffocates him, especially being back in his old room.

And maybe that’s to be expected.

Every corner of his room is filled with remnants of Derek or Scott or Lydia, of Isaac, of Erica. He feels disconnected when he stands by the doorway, staring at the room, feeling like an outsider in his own space. When he looks at the dust-covered desk, he’s taken back to those sleepless nights that he’d spent hours researching, crouched over the desk, staring at his laptop for hours on end.

Even his bed seems tainted. Stiles stares at the Batman sheets and all he can think about are the times that he and Derek had spent on the bed wrapped in each other’s arms, discovering each other, healing together, brainstorming together and—  

No, he can’t go back there. Stiles takes a shuddery breath, feeling like his lungs are slowly filling with water and _fuck_ , it’s so hard to breathe all of a sudden. He rushes down the stairs and out of the house, grabbing his wallet and keys on the way, slamming the front door behind him.

 

A short half-hour later, he finds himself perusing the cereal aisle, trying to decide between getting Cheerios or his childhood favorite, Lucky Charms.

“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself, throwing both boxes in the cart. He needs all the sugar he can get and maybe staring at the Cheerios box will make him feel better when he’s overdosing on the Lucky Charms. The only other item he needs now is peanut butter so he moves to the next aisle but freezes immediately when he looks down the lane.

Less than ten feet away, in front of the peanut butter section ( _figures_ , he thinks), is Lydia in all her strawberry-blond haired glory. She hasn’t noticed him yet, still trying to determine between the creamy and chunky style ( _Really, Lydia? You know the creamy one is the best. We’ve been through this_ , he thinks, smiling slightly).

He stands there a little too long, debating the merits of leaving quietly without attracting her attention or approaching her, because the next thing he knows, her head snaps in his direction and he finds himself staring back at her equally shocked face. He may keep in touch with her but he’s evaded every attempt of her trying to get him to come home and he’s not particularly proud of that.

Honestly, he wishes he could mark today in his calendar; this is probably the only time that he’s seen a befuddled expression on Lydia’s face and he feels oddly accomplished for being the one to put it there.

“Stiles?” she whispers, dropping the creamy peanut butter container on the floor. It begins to roll towards him and he bends down to pick it up before putting it in his own cart.

He gives her a small smile. “Hey, Lydia. It’s been a while, huh?”

He’s barely gotten the words out before a sea of strawberry-blonde curls blur his vision and the faint scent of daisies hits his nose. Stiles stands there for a moment before he hesitantly returns the hug.

After everything that happened, Lydia is still the only person other than his dad, Melissa, and Deaton that he still likes in this town. She’s the only one he regrets leaving behind and one of the only people that he would have considered coming back for.

Maybe it’s because both of them worked together so much doing research for the rest of the pack and developing strategies for any plans of attacks or negotiations with other packs. But either way, she had becoming a confidante whenever he felt inadequate for the pack, like he just wasn't enough. Hell, Lydia knew about Derek and Stiles before the two of them did.

She was – _is­ –_ his best friend, easily matching him in spirit, mind, and beliefs. Sometimes he thinks that’s why he could never truly love the way she needed him to. Lydia needs someone who challenges her, someone who makes her want to be better than she is.

Lydia lets him go finally and his smile softens at the tears he sees. Stiles wipes away the tears with his thumbs.

“Missed me that much, huh?” he attempts to joke. His heart feels a little lighter when she gives a small huff.

“You have no idea how much, Stilinski,” she murmurs. “I’m really sorry about your dad. We tried, you know, we tried – “

This is the last thing he wants to talk about standing in the middle of a grocery store but before he can get a word out, she stiffens. He gives her a bemused look, wondering at the sudden change in her demeanor, before he feels a slight tug in him – a tug that he hasn’t felt in eight long years and he doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

Stiles turns around slowly and standing less than twenty feet away from him is Derek Hale, in all his Henley-and-dark-washed-jeans-wearing glory.  

It’s incredibly cliché, Stiles knows, but he swears time stops in that moment. There’s no Lydia behind hi, the grocery shelves around them drop away, all noises fall quiet – there’s just _nothing_. Only he and Derek remain, standing in front of one another, like they’re seeing each other for the first time.

Derek is still every bit as attractive, looks just as sinful, as he was when Stiles was still seventeen. His dark grey Henley clings close to his body and Stiles just  _knows_  that those jeans are the ones that perfectly accentuate his ass. 

He’s probably closer to thirty now, Stiles muses, but his features haven’t changed one bit. Perhaps he’s gotten a tad bit leaner (his face does look kind of skinnier) but other than that, nothing is different about the former Alpha.

Derek seems shaken, he notices. His bright kaleidoscope-looking eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise. Stiles knows that all of them were probably expecting to see him at some point because of his dad’s condition but Derek probably thought the grocery store would be the last place they would bump into each other.

Frankly, so did Stiles.

His throat dries and the longer he stares at Derek, the longer the Derek-shaped hole in his heart gets bigger. It’s been years since he’s felt this type of raw, unadulterated anger but he can’t figure out if it’s because Derek is just right _there_ , standing so close that Stiles can touch him and rub his hands all over him if he wants to, or because as much as he believed that he’d locked up the part of his life with Derek away in the farthest part of his mind, it isn’t the case.

Either way, he doesn't like it, feeling two distinct emotions in waves: at first, nothing, and then a slow, burning rage.

The angrier he gets, the stronger he can feel his magic coursing through his body in hot streaks. It takes him a while to notice that his breathing has gotten more and more shallow but he calms himself down, struggling all the while. Derek flinches back as though he’s hit with the onslaught of Stiles’s emotions and it’s that motion that forces Stiles to reign his magic back within himself.

He can’t do this. Not right now, and certainly not while standing in the peanut butter aisle of the goddamn grocery store. 

“Stiles—“ Derek starts to say, taking a small step towards him but Stiles just shakes his head and flies in the opposite direction, barely acknowledging Lydia. He leaves his cart in the aisle, leaves all his groceries behind, and doesn’t stop running until he’s firmly settled in the driver’s side of his Jeep, already taking off towards his house.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles gets home in a daze and realizes too late that he has nothing to eat for dinner.

He needs to go back to the hospital in a couple of hours but he also needs to eat, especially since he’s skipped lunch already. His stomach groans in protest and his hands are already beginning to shake at the lack of glucose in his body so grabs a couple of granola bars from the pantry, practically inhaling them in his haste to get some food in his body. There’s also the matter of getting the house back in order – starting with triple-washing his sheets, probably. Seeing Derek left a bitter taste in his mouth and the last thing he needs is to sleep on a bed where all he can smell is the lingering scent of when they were together.

Of course, somewhere in between, he also needs to go see Deaton to figure out what’s going on in this town. It’s literally the first full day that he’s been in town and he’s already itching to leave. He’s overwhelmed out of his fucking mind and seeing his dad just lying on the hospital bed eats him up inside. His dad is the Sheriff, for fuck’s sake! He’s a goddamn superhero and superheroes aren’t supposed to get knocked down like this.

It pains him to see his dad so beaten down and weak; after his dad got himself together following his mom’s death, he’s been on the right track. Got rid of his alcohol issues, reigned in his temper, glued back the pieces of his life that seemed forever broken. Slowly but surely, they became a functioning family again and Stiles will be damned if he loses the last bit of his family to anything but natural causes. Besides, his dad is a fighter and he will get through this. _He will_.

Stiles will make sure of that.

Stiles falls on the couch and leans back, closing his eyes briefly. The sudden onslaught of exhaustion he’s hit with is incredible and now that he’s not moving, he feels it so much more. Every part of his body aches and Stiles has no idea what he should do about it. This is his _dad_. He’s quite literally the only family Stiles has left.

It’s days like this that Stiles finds himself constantly berating himself, telling himself that he should have visited his dad more, that he should have pushed his dad more to move to New York with him, should have made more time.

He should have done _something_ , anything.

Stiles checks his watch and looks around the empty living room. It’s just after four in the afternoon so he decides to take a quick nap before stopping at the diner down the street by the hospital for dinner. He grabs the burgundy fleece throw from the loveseat sofa and tucks himself in, breathing in the familiar musty scent buried deep within the couch as he closes his eyes.

 

_The doctors tell him that his chest was clawed open and the cuts were so deep that they could practically see the faint outline of his ribs. He wasn’t even supposed to survive the night. They don’t know, of course, that the only reason he survived was because his magic had already begun, and then accelerated, the healing process._

_He’s in the hospital for a month._

_He waits and waits, practically hungering for any of his pack mates to visit but aside from his dad and Melissa, there’s no one. At first, he thinks it’s because only family is allowed to visit but he knows that if either Scott or Derek wanted to visit, there’s no force in the hospital that could stop them. The only thing that keeps him sated is when he reaches out in himself for his pack bonds and feels them ever-so-present, a gentle buzzing just under the back of his mind that reminds him they’re still there._

_However when he asks Melissa, she begins to deflect the question, making him frown. He asks his dad too, over and over again, but his dad evades the question so well each time Stiles almost doesn’t catch it. So he stops asking. He hopes silently for someone to come and just say hi, even shoot him a text or make a five-second phone call, but when none of that happens for two weeks, he stops hoping._

_Two and a half weeks into his stay, Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night gasping for air and sweating all over. His chest feels like it’s trying to tear itself open, ripping, ripping, ripping, all the while being set on fire. It burns him to his bones and he yells, clawing at his chest with enough force to rip apart his stitches. He almost blacks out multiple times because of the pain._

_Nurses rush in at the sound of his outburst, followed shortly by the doctors, and they pump him with all kinds of drugs to get him back into stable condition._

_The magic that had been slowly healing him starts to have the opposite effect now; it runs through his body like it wants to hurt him, not heal, like it wants to cut away at his body until there’s nothing left to cut. He hollers endlessly several times, keeps trying to claw at himself but the nurses pounce on him, restraining him from making his injuries worse._

_The episode lasts for less than half an hour before all the magic in him, every last ounce, fades away into nothing and he falls back down on his bed, chest heaving from the spent energy. In just over an hour, Stiles body returns to its stable condition and the doctors are left scratching their heads. Everyone is confused and a little lost but they’re all glad when he begins responding the way he’s supposed to. After all, nobody wants to tell the Sheriff that his only son couldn’t be saved after a sudden episode of something they couldn’t even explain._

_So everyone’s happy, everyone but him._

_Because the moment that burning feeling passes and his breathing evens, he realizes what caused the episode in the first place. It wasn’t anything to do with a bad response to drugs or a possible infection or any of the other million possibilities the doctors were considering._

_It was his magic responding to the fact that his bond to the pack had been forcibly cut. He almost doesn’t believe it at first, doesn’t think they’re the kind of people capable of doing that, but when he tries to reach out to his pack bonds, there’s a dark void._

_It’s the first time he cries himself to sleep._

 

Stiles wakes up to a painfully empty, grumbling stomach. It’s just after seven – so much for the short nap – so he wills himself to get up and go out for some dinner before returning to the hospital. He grabs his wallet, phone, and keys from the coffee table and drives to his favourite diner, (Get) Lucky’s Diner – or Lucky’s, as it was called by everyone – for some takeout.

A lot of things had changed, Stiles notices as he drives. Main Street is still small and just as densely packed but there are so many little changes. The cute little coffee shop that he’d spent so many of his weekends researching had apparently closed, replaced by a convenience store. The old-school music and records store a few units down has been replaced by an Arby’s. There are also some new shops that had opened as well; a used bookstore, a bakery, a hair salon.

Stiles drives for a few blocks before he sees the diner to his right and he pulls into the parking lot, smiling in relief when he enters the joint. There are many things that may have changed in Beacon Hills but at least his favorite diner was still the same. The walls were still painted that atrocious shade of yellow, posters of obscure movies from the 50s and 60s still line those same walls, and the soft, melodious vocals of Sinatra still serenade the diners.

“Hey, how may I help you?” A soft voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he smiles at the shy-looking girl in the red apron. She’s not much older than fifteen.

“Yeah, can I get a number four to go, please?”

Stiles doesn’t need to see the menu. Ever since he and his dad had first started coming to this diner, he’s always gotten the number four combo: a cheeseburger with a side of curly fries and a drink.

The girl smiles at him and punches a few numbers on the till. “That’ll be eight-fifty. It’ll be ready in ten to fifteen minutes.”

He hands her a ten and waves a dismissing hand at her when she goes to give him the change, earning a beam in gratitude.

Stiles sits at a nearby booth, pulling out his phone to message Ezra. He hadn’t bothered texting Ezra back after the one he sent when he landed. Ezra, on the other hand, had sent him a slew of texts between then and now and Stiles rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips.

**_> Ezra, 8:30pm: _ ** _How’s your dad?_

**_> Ezra, 9:51pm:_ ** _Keep me updated._

**_> Ezra, 10:11am:_ ** _Elena’s asking if you’ve gotten a chance to see Deaton yet._

**_> Ezra, 11:45am:_ ** _Do you sense anything weird?_

**_> Ezra, 3:30pm:_ ** _We’ve been talking to the Turner pack in SF and they said they haven’t heard of anything yet – is it just Beacon Hills then?_

**_> Ezra, 6:05pm:_ ** _Reply to me, asshole. Not like I’m concerned across the damn country or anything._

Stiles grins at the last message and quickly taps out a response.

**_< Stiles, 7:30pm_ ** _Sorry, been kind of busy here – not like I have a dad in the hospital or anything. Going to see Deaton tomorrow morning. Will update you then._

The response he gets is immediate, a simple _okay, sounds good_. Stiles is hardly surprised at how quickly Ezra replies to his text. It’s almost ridiculous how attached Ezra is to his cell phone – not that Stiles can blame him. Being so high up in the Coonan pack hierarchy means that he has to be able to be accessible at all times in case anything ever comes up.

Stiles places the phone in front of him, leaning back against the cool leather of the booth, and takes a good look around. He missed this place. His dad and he had started to come to this diner after his mother had died, just a few weeks before he turned ten. When his birthday had finally rolled around, neither Stiles nor the Sheriff were in any mood to cook anything or have any kind of celebration at home so they had driven to the diner for a feeble attempt at getting away from their sorrows.

After that, it became a tradition.

If there was any time that called for a celebration – even a small one like when Stiles managed to go a whole two weeks without getting into any trouble with Scott – Stiles and the Sheriff would find themselves sitting in their favorite booth at Lucky’s ordering their usuals. On his dad’s birthday, Stiles even let him get the curly fries with his usual turkey burger.

This place definitely had some great memories attached to it and Stiles was almost disappointed to leave it behind. Then again, he was almost glad that he hadn’t been able to find a place like Lucky’s in New York yet; in his heart, there will only ever be one Lucky’s Diner and that’s that.

He’s just about to text Ezra back on his phone when he hears, “Hey, I heard you were back.”

For a very brief second, Stiles worries that it’s someone from the pack – and after the episode at the grocery store, he’s not ready to deal with anymore of them, thank you very much – but relaxes when the voice registers in his mind and he sees Danny’s familiar dimpled smile.

“Danny, how’s it going, man?” Stiles grins and gets up to give him a hug, motioning for Danny to join him at the booth once they pull away. Danny takes a seat and leans back, eyes raking over him like he’s trying to pinpoint every way in which Stiles seems different.

“I’m really sorry to hear about your dad, by the way. How’s he doing?”

Stiles shrugs. “They don’t know much yet. He’s been healing but it’s been going slower than usual.”

“Has he woken up yet?”

“Not yet.”

Stiles doesn’t want to talk about this anymore and Danny must pick up on it because the next minute, he’s giving Stiles a casual smirk.

“So, I hear you’re a big hotshot Detective in New York, huh? Almost hard to believe given your delinquent self when we were teenagers.”

“Yeah, well I studied Psychology at college and just fell into it, I guess. After all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?” Stiles chuckles, running a hand through his hair ruefully. “What are you up to anyways? Last I heard, you were headed to UCLA.”

“Yeah, did software engineering and then started working for independent startups. Been making my way up ever since.”

Stiles is impressed, but not exactly surprised. Danny’s talents were always in tinkering with computers and hacking so his choice of career is pretty obvious.

“Wait, do you live around here still or are you back in LA?”

Danny shakes his head. “I’m in LA but I was just here visiting Jackson for the weekend.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows and tilts his head in inquisition. “Thought he was still in London?”

“Jackson transferred back after his first year of college. Did a year at LSE before switching to Stanford so he’d be closer to Lydia and everyone else. He and Lydia have their own place now near the Hale house,” Danny explains.

Well, then.

 _Seems like one big happy reunion for everyone_ , Stiles thinks, his throat closing up. Not that he’s bitter. After all, it’s not like he was practically pushed out of his hometown. It might have been eight years but he can fill the sting of abandonment by a group of people he’d literally bled for. He’d put blood, sweat, and tears into the pack only to be discarded on the street like some unwanted stray dog.

He clears his throat, giving Danny a thin smile, an awkward silence settling between the two of them. He was there when the pack had officially told Danny about the supernatural world and exactly what had been going on in Beacon Hills.

Danny’s smart; he already suspected there was more to all those random attacks than just mountain lions but he didn’t know all the details. After Allison and Chris had been captured by a couple of Gerard’s men for retribution, they’d needed Danny and slowly, he began to be included in the pack dealings, but as more of a consultant than an official member, someone they could rely on when they needed his computer knowledge.

 _Danny Mahealani, Werewolf Consultant._ Stiles could just see the business cards.

“Stilinski?”

His name breaks him out of his reverie and after shooting Danny a quick smile, he gets up so he could get his food. When he finally gets his hands on the greasy brown paper bag and catches the familiar whiff of greasy curly fries and charred beef, his stomach grumbles loudly, this time gratefully. The girl behind the counter giggles and Stiles flushes. He turns back to where Danny’s sitting in the booth and waves his hand for goodbye.

“Don’t be a goddamn stranger, Stilinski,” Danny calls out and Stiles can’t help but laugh slightly in return. He nods back, grateful that Danny didn’t mention his father again, before ducking out of the diner and practically speeding to the hospital, eating mouthfuls of curly fries on the way.

By the time he gets to the hospital, it’s almost nine. Stiles hears the whispers about his arrival back in Beacon Hills as he walks in, words of how _absolutely heartbreaking it is that the poor boy has to see his father lie there in the hospital bed now, such a shame, isn’t it_ that follow him all the way to his father’s room.

He doesn’t react to any of them. Most of the nurses that worked at the hospital were older now but they were there when he was making this same trip for his mom as a kid. The whispers followed him then and they follow him now.

Just as Stiles puts his hand on the cool metal door handle, a weird sensation crawls around in him. He takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes, trying to focus on what it is behind the door. It’s only a short moment later that’s he feels the feedback of the power.

 _Alpha_ , it whispers.

Stiles grits his teeth and pushes the door open. Almost immediately, Scott’s head snaps up to him, mouth already forming words but Stiles can feel is his magic responding to the fury of seeing Scott’s hands covering his father’s, black vein-like lines streaking up his arms. As if reacting instinctually, Stiles’s arm shoots outward at Scott and then towards the wall. Scott’s body flings itself at the wall hard, slumping on the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Stiles snarls quietly at Scott, who’s picked himself off the floor and rubbing the back of his head in pain. The last thing he wants is to be kicked out of the hospital for creating a commotion; frankly he’s surprised that none of the nurses have burst into the room already.

When Stiles was just falling into his magical capabilities, Deaton had warned him that the cardinal rule of controlling magic like his was to always be the one to control it; the magic should never be allowed to control him.

_“Your magic is highly responsive to your emotions. It is driven by how strongly you want it to work so if you feel passionate about making it work, it will feed from that passion and give you power in return. Consequently, if you feel weak, it will only fizzle and your spark will never turn into the flame that it can.”_

_“So it’s kinda like when Harry Potter could make the glass case with the snake vanish because he was angry?” Stiles grins cheekily at the Emissary, who rolls his eyes but nods nonetheless. Stiles smirks to himself and looks at his hands, flexing them into closed fists before opening them up again, excited._

“I was just trying to help,” Scott replies, whining. He wants to reach out but stops when Stiles glares at him.

“Get out,” Stiles says instead, motioning to the door, glaring daggers at the werewolf.

“Stiles, come on –”

Stiles walks closer to the man he once called his brother until they’re standing close enough for their chests to touch.

“Get out, Scott. Preferably before I call Security and have them drag you out like the animal you are,” he murmurs coldly, his eyes flashing with anger.

Scott gives him a hurt look before stepping back, jerking his head in a resigned nod. The werewolf passes by him and it’s not until after Stiles hears the door open and close softly behind him that he finally releases the breath he’d been holding throughout the whole encounter.


	5. Chapter 5

For the rest of the night, Stiles just talks to his dad. 

His dad hasn’t woken up but it’s only been just over a day so Stiles isn’t panicking – yet. But he also doesn’t know what to do. So he does what he knows best; he talks.

He talks about New York. He talks about the case he’d been working on and about how he’s been driving himself insane over it ever since he got his hands on it. He talks about how he thinks Elena is gearing up to ask him to be part of their pack. He talks about Ezra. He talks about everything.

It’s probably around three in the morning before he finally manages to pass out. Every once in a while he’d rub a thumb over the back of his dad’s hand just to see if that would be the moment his dad finally blinks his eyes open and makes some offhanded comment about Stiles not eating enough. But it doesn’t happen.

The Sheriff’s eyes stay closed the whole time.

 

Stiles wakes up to someone shaking him. His dad had been given one of the few rooms with a fairly large window that faced the east so while Stiles knew his dad would appreciate the view once he woke up, Stiles does not appreciate the blaring morning light. His lips are dry and there’s a crick in his neck from the awkward position he slept in so he runs his tongue over his lips and rubs the back of his neck.

“This habit of yours has got to stop, you know,” Melissa says and Stiles gives her a small smile. She’s wearing cranberry scrubs today and the only reason Stiles notices them is because he can’t help but think that the color really suits her.

He tells her as much and she grins. “Thank you, Stiles. Your dad actually got these for me for my last birthday.”

Speaking of whom…

“What do the doctors say?”

Melissa hesitates like she’s trying to find the perfect words to not make him worry and while Stiles appreciates the sentiment, that’s not what he wants. It’s what his dad tried to do when his mother was in the hospital and it didn’t make the hurt go away any faster. They try to make him feel better about it all by treating him like some special fragile case but it’s not what he wants. It’s not what he needs. He needs reality. He can’t afford to live in a false sense of security, not where his only living parent is concerned.

Melissa grabs the other chair and sits down beside him, moving to hold Stiles’s hand in hers.

“They don’t know what’s going on,” she begins quietly. “When he came in, he had these marks all over his body that looked like he’d been whipped so they took him into surgery and treated all the wounds.”

Stiles tightens his hold on Melissa’s hand but relaxes when he sees her wince out of the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just takes to stare at his dad’s helpless and bandaged body, so Melissa keeps talking.

“The scars will take some time to heal and there are quite a few of them that may never go away,” she says. Melissa bites her lip and runs her thumb over Stiles’s hand. They’re quiet for a while before Stiles turns to her.

“You’re not telling me something,” he states confidently because he knows her well enough. And because there’s always something more. After all, it’s Beacon Hills.

“He’s not healing like he’s supposed to,” she says finally. At Stiles’s questioning look, she explains, “See, he came in with injuries that are mostly physical and his body should be progressing along at a certain pace to heal those injuries but it’s not. His body isn’t responding well to the drugs either. So none of the doctors really know what to do but keep him here for the time being.”

“Do they know how it happened? Is anyone looking into it?”

“To tell you the truth, kiddo, they don’t know that either. All they know is that the Sheriff responded to a call made to one of the abandoned train tracks—”

Stiles sits up, eyes wide. “Abandoned train tracks like where Derek used to live years ago?”

Melissa nods. “Exactly there. So he responded to that call because they were short-staffed that night and when dispatch tried to get in touch with him, he didn’t respond. Parrish and Suarez found him lying in a pool of blood when they went for back-up and called it in.”

“You think it could be something completely random or does it have something to do with the recent surge of magic here?”

“I know your dad put away quite a few criminals but honestly I don’t think any of those ghosts take to whipping the Sheriff till he’s passed out.”

Stiles nods, agreeing. His dad may have made his enemies throughout his career but Beacon Hills isn’t the type to cultivate the hard-hearted criminals who would pull this kind of a stunt for the sake of revenge. Supernatural causes it is then.

“Though Parrish did say something interesting to me when they brought him in.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“He said the place smelled like death.”

 

Melissa kicks him out a couple of hours later on her way home, refusing to let him stay in the room any longer. So Stiles goes back home, showers, and returns to the grocery store. He can only live on diner food for so many days.

This time, the grocery run is fairly quick; he’s in and out in less than half an hour but that may also be due to him rushing through the store. So sue him, he’s afraid of running into Derek again. He’s being chicken, he knows, but he’s just not ready to be anywhere around Derek right now.

He checks his phone messages once he gets home and puts away the groceries, looking to see if Ezra texted him but nothing so far. As much as he likes to deny to Ezra’s face, he’s become one of Stiles’s best friends back in New York and after all these years of knowing each other, they’d settled into a sort of a comfortable habit with each other. One where Ezra takes to texting Stiles at least once every few hours – even at awkward times of the night.

But staring at the phone doesn’t make any messages appear magically so he shoots Ezra a simple message instead on his way home.

 **< Stiles, 9:15am:** _Everything okay?_

He fixes himself a quick breakfast of some toast and butter along with a glass of milk before rushing out to Deaton’s office.

Deaton was yet another reason that Stiles missed Beacon Hills. It’s not that they were every close in the way Deaton and Scott were but he was the man who taught Stiles everything he knew. He was the first to recognize the spark in Stiles and after the Alpha pack, he was the one who met with Stiles every weekend for hours on end to help him reach his potential.

He taught Stiles how to control his magic, how to use it to help the pack, and how to draw his power from the pack to strengthen it further. Deaton was Stiles’s mentor in every way that Derek became Scott’s mentor once the Alpha torch had been passed to him.

He gets to the vet’s office in record time, caring very little for most of the traffic laws. It’s been so long since he’s gotten behind the wheel that he almost teared up the first time he finally put the keys in the ignition and his hands on the steering wheel. Whatever. Stiles is man enough to admit that. There’s a deep love between him and his Jeep and the only reason the Jeep stayed in Beacon Hills when he left for college was because he lived on campus and his dad didn’t want him to make the long drive in an old car.

The front door to the office is open but Stiles doesn’t sense Deaton anywhere. The little bell over the front door jingles when he pushes it open and at once, Stiles feels the full impact of the pack’s energy. He curses under his breath; he’d thought this meeting with Deaton would be private but apparently not.

The door closes behind him and whispers from the back room pause. Stiles considers just staying out in the front to wait for Deaton but he may as well get it over with now. It’s only a matter of time before he sees everyone anyways so it may just be better if it happens in one go. Besides, he’s already been forced to run into the two people who are at the crux of his anger so the others probably already know he’s in town.

Stiles pushes the door to the back room open and almost steps back at the sheer energy in the room, if nothing else. Deaton had explained when Stiles had first bonded with the pack that theirs was an intimate connection. His magic relied heavily on the pack once they were bound. Having the whole pack in proximity could overwhelm his magic if he couldn’t control it and give it a suitable outlet to get rid of the surcharge.

Stiles is surprised right now though; the ties between him and the pack have been broken for almost a decade now so he’s taken aback when he feels his magic responding to the pack. It’s slow, like a slight uptick, almost like it’s been hiding under his skin itching to flare out and announce its presence. Like it wants to connect to the pack once again and find the solace it’s been starved of for years.

His hands clench into fists at his sides as he takes a quick moment to ground himself before he looks around the room. Stiles stares at the lot of them and they watch him, gaging for his reaction because, really, nobody knows what to do or how to respond.

All of them look older now, he notes.

Obviously that’s because they _are_ older but they look older, wiser, their faces no longer holding the innocence they once did. They all look like they’d seen things; gone through hell and back just to be able to stand there in front of him, together as a pack, united.

He knows about everything, of course. His father had made sure to keep him updated on everything that happened. Every witch, fairy, Omega, and even the occasional wendigo that dared to cross Beacon Hills had been driven out or killed fiercely by the pack.

They were stronger now, had managed to put aside all of their differences to form one cohesive unit. To this day, Stiles remembers the pang he felt in his chest when his dad first told him that, pride resonating in his voice and it killed Stiles more than he’d care to admit.

Stiles had struggled for a long time to find his place in the pack, to be more than just Scott’s Robin, more than the prick in Derek’s side, more than that guy who was in love with Lydia since the third grade, but he’d finally succeeded. Slowly but surely, he brought out Derek from his shell, helped him deal with the guilt of all the deaths he’d burdened himself with, helped him reconnect with Cora once again. Of course, that was the extent to which Stiles was able to help; Isaac was still at odds with Derek and Jackson was still in London.

So naturally, it burned Stiles, hearing the pride in his dad’s tone, because that meant admitting that the pack had somehow managed to come together so easily after he left. That was perhaps the first time he realized that maybe the pack didn’t need him after all. If he had his doubts on the matter before that, the phone call with his dad just cemented it for him.

The stilted atmosphere in the room dissipates slightly when Lydia steps away from Jackson’s side and barrels into him. His arms automatically find their place around her tiny waist and he tucks his head in her neck, breathing deeply, as she does the same.

He’d seen her only yesterday but Stiles is incapable of holding anything back from Lydia. It only takes a single look or touch from her before he breaks down and he’s not surprised when he realizes that the feeling still hasn’t gone away. She gives him a bright smile when they break free and Stiles can feel himself returning the look.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can tell Isaac and Allison want to jump at him much in the same way Lydia had but they hold themselves back. Both of them had slowly managed to worm their way into his life and had made themselves a permanent fixture by his side.

It’s quiet, too quiet.

Either they’re very obviously avoiding his eyes or they’re looking at him like they’re about to burst. Stiles wants to say something – anything really – but he doesn’t know what to say or where to begin. He can’t just go up and about like he’s forgotten what had happened but at the same time, if there’s anything he craves right now, it’s for things to go back to what they once were. So instead, he leans against the wall, keeping his attention solely on Lydia, not quite ready to deal with anyone else just yet.

“When’s Deaton coming in?” he asks finally.

“He said he was running late because of something. He should have been here by now though, right Scott?” She checks her phone, frowning.

Scott’s standing off to the side with an arm around Allison and Stiles doesn’t look at him but he can feel him nodding at Lydia.

“Deaton is the most punctual person I know,” Stiles says and Lydia nods at him.

“Agreed, but he didn’t tell us why he was going to be late either so we don’t really know where he could be.”

“Well, that’s not concerning at all,” Stiles mutters, looking out at the front door. “Not like there’s a possible freaking mass murderer out there.”

He’s about to speak again when they all hear the bell jingle and collectively breathe a sigh of relief. The alternatives running through Stiles’s overactive brain were only beginning to get worse. He relaxes for only a moment though before his eyes widen, his senses flaring up.

Deaton’s not alone.

And from the look on everyone else’s faces – especially the werewolves – he’s not the only one who catches the presence either. But unlike everyone else, he’s painfully aware of who this particular guest is.

“I apologize to keep you all waiting but as you can see, we have a guest joining us,” Deaton says airily as he waltzes into the room, motioning to blond following him. “This is Ezra Coonan. He’s visiting from New York. Mr. Coonan, this is the McCall pack. Scott McCall is the Alpha.”

“Ah yes – the True Alpha of Beacon Hills,” Ezra murmurs, giving Scott a sweeping look and from the corner of his eye, Stiles can tell that Scott doesn’t know how to react to that.

Stiles stares at the wolf with a narrowed, unimpressed look as Deaton makes the introductions. When Deaton gets to Stiles, he just smiles.

“I understand that you’re already familiar with each other?”

Ezra smirks at Stiles’s look.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles gripes and Ezra’s smirk only gets bigger.

“Aw, I missed you too,” he coos in return, running a hand over Stiles’s arm, leaving it to linger over his shoulder. It makes Erica and Isaac bristle in the corner but they say nothing.

Stiles crosses his arms across his chest and looks at the blond defiantly. “I didn’t need a babysitter. Elena should know better.”

“ _Elena_ wants you alive and well,” Ezra retorts, scratching the side of his nose. Stiles opens his mouth to argue but Derek beats him to it.

“Wait, Elena as in Elena Coonan?”

Stiles whips his head around to Derek, giving him an openly surprised look, mirrored by Allison as well. Scott gives him a bemused glance before cutting to Ezra, trying to gauge if he’s heard of the name somewhere. Ezra nods.

“Who’s Elena Coonan?” Isaac asks, wrinkling his nose.

“She’s one of the most powerful Alphas on the East Coast,” Allison answers and she turns to Stiles, tilting her head questioningly.

“She was the one who helped protect me and Laura when we were in New York after the fire,” Derek says and Stiles widens his eyes at that particular tidbit of information because Elena had certainly neglected to mention that.

“Speaking of which, may I say that it’s an absolute tragedy what happened to your sister when she returned here. We were deeply saddened when we heard,” Ezra replies. His eyes cut to Stiles briefly before they turn back to Derek and he offers him a comforting smile, which Derek returns with a stiff nod.

Deaton rubs his hands together, looking at everyone expectantly.

“So, shall we get started?”

“Parrish told Melissa that the place where they found my dad smelled like death,” Stiles starts. Ezra looks surprised and Stiles can tell the gears in his head are already churning out all the possibilities.

“I believe Isaac also got that feeling, yes?” Deaton nods.

“Uh – yeah.” Isaac seems surprised at being called on but he continues on regardless. “When I went to check it out after the police had cleared away, the stench was still there. It smelt like blood but it was weird too because as soon as I got close enough, all of my senses got overwhelmed by this feeling of death.” He takes a deep breath, shuddering, before peering at Deaton. “It felt like I was walking into my own funeral.”

By the way Allison runs her hand up and down his arm softly, Stiles can tell that the ordeal had really shaken the werewolf up.

“What about everything else that’s been happening?” Ezra asks suddenly. He looks at everyone in the room. “We heard this place has become catnip for the supernatural once again thanks to the reawakening of a certain ancient element. You’ve had a lot more attacks in the past few months, yes? This sort of stuff’s only happened once before, right?”

“Yeah, with the Nemeton,” Scott nods. He looks at Allison and Stiles expectantly because it’s the three of them that felt the crux of that power more than anyone else. Stiles nods in response. He parts his lips, realizing just how dry his lips are, and runs his tongue across them.

“So what happened? How did you destroy the Nemeton?”

“Uh – we kind of didn’t? It’s still there,” Stiles coughs, avoiding Ezra’s patented _are you seriously kidding me right now_ look. He rolls his eyes, affronted. “What? It was inconsequential. After the sacrifices, the Nemeton went back into dormancy again and it hadn’t been an issue again.”

“Until now,” Deaton interjects and Stiles nods.

“Until now.” He looks at Deaton, who’s made himself busy filling up four different jars with different colored powders in them that glimmer under the fluorescent lighting. From the collective flinch of the werewolves, Stiles figures the powders probably contain a mix of wolfsbane and aconite. “Are those to be used for whatever’s going on right now?”

“Not quite. These are unprepared still and we shall hope that you won’t have to use them at all.” He takes the jars and places them on one of the back shelves before addressing the room in general. “Unfortunately, we will have to do more research. From what Mr. Coonan has led me to believe, this problem is currently only afflicting Beacon Hills, meaning that something or someone out there is specifically targeting this town.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Jackson mutters and Stiles is inclined to agree with him for once. Stiles notices the shift in tension in the room; it’s been a long time since they were up against something they had never encountered before. Hell, they can’t even see the damn thing, only feel the reverberations of the magic happening.

“So what now?” Derek asks, finally. “We can’t just sit here and wait for it to get even more powerful.”

Deaton nods in agreement. “You’re absolutely right. However, like I said, we need more research and this is where Mr. Coonan, Stiles, and Lydia will come in,” he says, motioning to them. “We must be very careful. If we can’t figure out what the endgame is or even what this thing is, we won’t be able to defend ourselves properly.”

“And if the attacks keep happening?” Scott asks, straightening.

His answer is a painful silence.

“Right, well, are we done here? I’d like to get to the hospital now,” Stiles mutters, looking at Deaton. He peers back before nodding carefully. At once, the room is full of flurried motion as one by one, everyone starts to collect their things and get ready to leave. Stiles gives a final nod to Deaton and is about to leave when the older man catches his wrist and pulls him aside.

“I’d like a word with you, if that’s okay,” he requests and well, it’s not like Stiles can refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. K so I know I said to some of you that this update would have been up by this past weekend but I had to get my wisdom teeth taken out and just couldn't concentrate on finishing the chapter in time so I apologize for that! 
> 
> I've also mapped out 90% of the story and it's come up to about 12ish chapters so far so I think the most it will be around 15 chapters, including the Epilogue. 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own and let me know what you all think :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh I'm so sorry the update is so late. This chapter gave me so much trouble because I just could not figure it out and then of course, I started work and I barely ended up having any time to write at all. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I'm not entirely unhappy either. BUT I hope this was worth the wait for you all!

Chapter 6

The rest of them clear out the room in seconds. Ezra gives Stiles a quick glance before trailing behind the rest of the pack, closing the door after him. Stiles stares expectantly at Deaton who motions him to take a seat. Deaton moves around the room putting various small jars back in their slots and Stiles takes the time to look around.

“Stiles, first of all, I’d like to say that I’m very sorry about what happened to your dad,” Deaton begins and Stiles gives him a stiff nod, staying quiet otherwise. “I know it must be easy to blame everyone else for not protecting him but I must ask that you refrain from doing that.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at his former mentor. “I don’t blame them for not protecting him; he’s the Sherriff. The possibility of getting hurt while on duty is, and always has been, part of the job description. I blame them for preventing me in protecting him myself.”

Deaton nods. “I understand where you are coming from but—”

“But that’s not why you asked to talk to me right now, is it?” Stiles interrupts, tone verging on impatient.

“No, it’s not. I’m not sure how much Elena or Ezra may have gotten the chance to tell you before you had to come here but I will say this, Stiles,” Deaton cautions. “We have no idea what we’re up against. We’ve battled many creatures in this town, as I’m sure you’re well aware, but none of them have managed to change the aura of this town.”

“What do you mean change the aura of the town?” Stiles asks and leans forward, brows furrowed.

Deaton takes a deep breath, as if he’s trying to think of how to explain it best, making Stiles snort internally because the man is nothing if not torturously ambiguous. Thing is, being vague isn’t a luxury Deaton can afford right now.

“When you drove into town, did you feel anything out of the ordinary?” Deaton asks finally.

Stiles gives a slow nod. “Yeah, it was like this weird buzzing feeling right under my skin.”

“And that’s never happened before while you were here, correct? Not even when you were just beginning to step into your potential?”

Stiles shakes his head this time. “No. I mean I’ve had a similar feeling when I was still learning but it was different this time. I can’t really describe it but it just felt wrong.”

“Exactly. You see, Beacon Hills carries a sort of an aura, especially so after you stepped into your spark. And while you were here, you acted almost as an anchor for all the magic here – your own internal magic, the residual magic of the Hale land, and of course, the Nemeton. But once you left, the resonating energy held in the magic started to destabilize. Not fast enough for it to be noticeable while it was happening, but rather in small, miniscule increments.”

Stiles feels a tingle at the back of his neck, almost like a gnawing feeling that tells him that all this may just be his fault. Maybe if he’d been stronger, if he hadn’t run away from his problems, maybe if he had just stayed, abandonment issues be damned, he could have still anchored the magic here.

“I can see you blaming yourself, Stiles,” Deaton says softly. “Don’t do it. You had no idea what leaving would do. Even I didn’t catch the changes until almost five years after you left.” When Stiles nods stiffly at the slight reassurance, he continues. “Like I was saying, once the destabilization process began, it was almost like there was all this raw energy in the air that had nowhere to go. So most of it transferred itself into the Hale land – which helped a bit but the more raw energy that was produced, the more it transferred into the land. Unfortunately, there came a point where the land itself was unable to store that energy anymore.”

“And energy like that is like catnip, it’s powerful. It attracts the unnatural,” Stiles murmurs, remembering his earlier lessons from Deaton. He looks up at the older man, hands fidgeting in nervousness. “What did it attract this time?”

Deaton gives him a wry smile. “Unfortunately, that’s the part none of us know anything about. Whatever it’s attracted has managed to stay under the radar for almost three months now. In fact, the attack on your father was only the third time we’ve felt the presence.”

Stiles perks up. “Third time? There was a first and a second?”

“Well, the first time was when the general aura began to change and the effects of the destabilizing energy could be felt by us. The second was time was what made your dad investigate at the train tracks in the first place.”

“So we need research,” Stiles decides, glancing towards the door.

“And lots of it,” Deaton finishes, motioning the end of the conversation.

Stiles sighs. Truthfully, he has no idea what he just walked into. Learning all about his magic the second time around wasn’t fun but it was necessary. Now that he’s back, it occurs to him how separated he’s been feeling all this time. Leaving Beacon Hills starved his magic of its life in a way; he was still able to use it but it always felt dull, like it was working because it had to, robotic almost. There was no color, no _spark_ , left.

But coming back invigorated him and it was a feeling he felt the second his car crossed through the town’s borders. Every part of him surged with magic – the bright, vivid spark he thought he’d lost forever – and it was like his lungs suddenly expanded with an influx of fresh air. The magic flared in and out about him, curling around his body in thin wispy tendrils of energy.

Stiles glances at Deaton, who gives him a small smile, and with a final thankful nod, he opens the door and walks out. Rationally, he knows he left because he had to but after what Deaton just told him, his guilt complex pounds into him.

 _Figures_ , he thinks wryly. There are a lot of things he’s responsible for and he knows this but it never occurred to him how long that list slowly became over the years. It’s miles and miles of little hills that have escalated into Everest. After all, he’s the reason Scott got bit, he’s the reason Derek was arrested _twice_ , the reason his dad lost his job, the reason Aiden died, the reason Allison almost died.

And now, he’s probably the reason his dad was lying half-dead in the hospital. _It fucking figures_ , he thinks, teeth gritting. Everything somehow manages to come full-circle back to him. How much blood does he have on his hands now?

Ezra’s waiting for him against his Jeep when he walks out but so are Derek and Scott. Stiles is content in ignoring the two werewolves but he hardly makes it to his Jeep before Scott calls out to him. “Stiles, we should probably talk about all this sometime.”

Stiles freezes for a second, a flash of panic crossing his face before he squares off his shoulders and turns to Scott. “I didn’t think we had anything to talk about,” he remarks coolly.

Stiles glances at Derek only briefly but keeps his attention focused solely on Scott.

“Look, I don’t know what Deaton told you—”

“Yes you do. Don’t pretend like you weren’t listening in, Scotty,” Stiles interrupts, rolling his eyes.

“Okay fine. Still, we need to work together to figure this out. We’ve all been trying to deal with whatever this – _thing_ – is for months and we’ve gotten nowhere. Even with Deaton’s help! We need to work together,” Scott insists.

Stiles can’t see Ezra’s face but knows that he agrees with Scott. And really, Stiles knows that rationally it is the best plan. They need to be able to work together. His eyes flicker to Derek, whose eyes are still fixated on his face, before giving a small nod.

“Fine, but on one condition. I only work with Lydia,” he says firmly. “I don’t want anything to do with you or the rest of your pack. Clear?” Stiles folds his arms against his chest, chin jutting out in determination.

Scott and Derek share a look and it almost pains Stiles because once upon a time, it was Stiles that Scott shared those looks with, the looks where they had entire conversations about strategy and attack plans with just a few flickers of their eyes.

After what seems like eternity, Scott finally nods. But when Stiles turns around to get into his Jeep, Scott calls out again. “Stiles, can’t we just try and work through this?”

Stiles stills in his movements, his heart thudding faster and faster, blood roaring through his head. It only takes a second but he can feel the anger bubbling up inside him, wanting to claw out to the surface. It’s not the time nor the place and when his eyes flicker to Ezra, he sees the werewolf practically pleading him not to make a scene but he can’t stop himself anymore.

After all, it took a lot of effort for him to run the other way when he saw Derek at the grocery store and again to keep himself from ripping Scott apart at the hospital. It was one thing to have to come back to Beacon Hills to see his dad lying in the hospital and another thing to see Scott trying to take his pain away, like they were still family.

But this was ridiculous. Scott trying to patch things up now that they’ve managed to stumble on something they can’t defeat? Yeah, Stiles has some words about that.

Stiles walks up to Scott, close enough that their bodies are almost flushed together, eyes glaring daggers at him. He’s okay with admitting that he’s impressed that Scott doesn’t flinch or move back.

A beat and then, “Fuck. You. You think that you can just walk back into my life after what you did – after what you _all_ did – and everything was going to be okay? Is that what you thought, Scott? You have no idea what you did to me. It felt like my heart was being ripped open. And it _hurt_ , man. It hurt more than when that damn harpy clawed my chest open. Know why?”

Stiles takes a thrill in seeing how much this hurts Scott. He pauses slightly to catch his breath before steamrolling right ahead, not waiting for an answer. “It’s because I realized that it wasn’t some asshole who did it – it was my fucking _brother_. And fuck, not one of you except Lydia had any balls to at least come and see me after. You’re all nothing but a bunch of cowards. You’re all just cowards who just keep winning these stupid little fights with the world and you think it makes you so strong and powerful. But you couldn’t be more wrong.”

His eyes flicker to Derek and he’s happy to see that he looks ruined. They both do. He takes a step back, shaking his head. Years of picturing this exact moment in his head has done nothing to prepare how much it’d wreck him in the process too.

Stiles takes a deep breath, voice barely above a whisper. “You both think everything you do is to protect people, right? That’s how you rationalized what you did to me, right? But fuck, dude. You think you protected me by breaking me off? Let me tell you something though, Scott. The way I felt that night and then every single fucking day until I left? You may as well have handed me a loaded gun, man. So tell me now, Scott. If you were me, would you try?”

His chest begins to heave and his hands are clenched tightly into fists at his side, hollow and empty. His breathing gets labored, his mind already recognizing it as a sign of the inevitable panic attack, but he stumbles back when Derek reaches out to him. Stiles’s vision starts to blur, tinny little black spots dancing in his line of sight and vaguely, he feels an arm winding around his shoulder, leading him away from the two werewolves.

It only takes a second before he passes out.

 

When Stiles comes to, he’s in bed. He blinks his eyes open but shuts them as soon as he’s reminded of how he got to be in bed in the first place, groaning with frustration.

“Well, good morning there, Sleeping Beauty.”

Stiles huffs, pushing his old blanket off his body and sits up. He glances blearily around the room before his eyes fall on Ezra, lounging on his chair, flicking through his copy of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban._ He blinks again, rubbing the sleepiness away.

“Fuck you,” he mutters belatedly, sending Ezra into a fit of chuckles.

“Seems to be your go-to phrase for today, doesn’t it?”

Stiles ignores the snarky tone. “Fuck, it’s been years since I’ve actually passed out because of one of my panic attacks.”

Ezra hums. “Used to happen often?”

“More when my mom died. Not so much after I started seeing someone to help me but it would still happen if I got hit with one and there wasn’t anyone around to talk me through it,” he shrugs. Ezra nods, but his eyes don’t move from the book.

It’s true but he doesn’t say that it’s only happened once before, when he was twelve and he took a walk by himself into the woods and then promptly got lost. He’d woken up to being carried back to his dad’s patrol car by his dad.

“I understand why you never agreed, you know,” Ezra says finally, peering at Stiles, as he puts the closed book on Stiles’s desk.

“Agreed to what?” Stiles gives him a bemused look.

“Joining our pack.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “What – what are you talking about? When was that offer ever on the table?”

Ezra raises an eyebrow. “It was on the table the minute you slammed the door in my face. Elena never bothered to formally put it out there given your refusal to talk about your pack here but she always hoped that if she gave you enough time, eventually you might approach her yourself.”

Stiles’s throat dries, mouth opening and shutting a few times before he has the words. “Why would she think I’d want to join another pack after what happened here?”

It’s Ezra’s turn to shrug now. “Well, we knew that your magic was tied to the Hale land and therefore, the pack here, but after that connection was cut, we figured you might think of joining another pack if it meant giving your magic a chance to become stronger.”

Stiles feels winded at the revelation, feeling glad that he’s on his bed. He goes through a whirlwind of emotions, confused, hurt, betrayed, panic, just to name a few.

“Is – is that why you came to me in the first place? So I’d join your pack and make you more powerful? What? All this shit for the past eight years was your pack just biding your time until I came crawling to you all?”

Ezra’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock, as though he can’t fathom that that’s the conclusion Stiles drew from what he’d just been told.

“No, Stiles, no!” he shakes his head vehemently, standing up in alarm. Stiles knows Ezra can sense the distinct bitter smell of hurt wafting through the room and he begins to pace about, pausing every once in a while to look back at Stiles, like he’s making sure Stiles is still there.

“No – no, not at all! Those were not our intentions. I came looking for you because we knew you were part of the Hale-McCall pack and we weren’t really sure why you would leave your pack across the country. We thought you came to New York for something and we just wanted to know if we should be concerned about your presence.”

“Why would it matter if I left my pack like that?”

Ezra sighs then, looking unsure as to how he could explain. He tries anyway, though.

“Look, wolves are creatures of pack and family and werewolves even more so. It takes a lot for a werewolf to leave his pack and move across the country; it’s not unheard of but it just doesn’t happen that often. It’s especially rare in packs that are small and ones who have suffered through a tragic loss. When we first became aware of your presence, none of us were able to figure out why you would leave your pack, especially because of your magical ties here. You’re the stabilizing force, right? Our emissary had heard of how powerful you could be from Deaton before you even came out here so when I reached out to you, we were just trying to protect our own. We only figured out that you had permanently left your pack when you refused to talk about them.”

Stiles nods, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I’m just done, you know. I hate being surprised and I just felt like—“

“Déjà vu?” Ezra gives him a small smile and Stiles huffs out a laugh, finally at ease.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I flipped. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’re overwhelmed and on edge. It’s expected,” Ezra shrugs, falling back into the chair. “But yeah, it makes sense as to why you never wanted to join our pack.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Obviously, Ezra. I can admit that I have trust issues as high as Mount-freakin’-Everest when it comes to werewolves and packs.”

Ezra snorts. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

Stiles narrows his eyes in response. “What.”

“Stiles, I’ve been around you and your pack for less than two hours. And in that time, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much anger wafting from you in the eight years that I’ve known you.”

“So what? It makes sense,” Stiles bristles but Ezra just shakes his head.

“You don’t understand, Stiles. You claim to hate them and that you never want them in your life again—“

“It’s true!” he interrupts but Ezra raises his hand in response, cutting him off.

“I’m not finished. You claim to hate them so much but I know one thing about hate, Stiles. When you hate someone – _really_ hate them – they don’t even faze you anymore. They become the equivalent of a housefly. You don’t go out of your way to swat a housefly; you just learn to ignore it. The fact that you still feel all this anger at them and the way that your magic responds to that emotion?” Ezra pauses, peering at Stiles, a wry smile on his face.

“The answer’s obvious, don’t you think? No matter how much you try to convince yourself, they’re still a very stable presence in your mind. No matter how much you pretend otherwise, you know that deep down, just as well as I do, that you’re never going to be able to really hate them.”

And well, there’s nothing Stiles can say to that.

 

They don’t talk about it after that time.

Ezra has always been intuitive when it came to certain things. And yes, much of that intuition can be owed to the fact that he’s a werewolf but in many ways, Ezra is like Stiles’s dad. He knows when to provide comfort, when to push, and when to leave the matter alone. He’s a master of tough love and while Stiles is glad to have had him in his life in New York, it’s times like these that he’s really annoyed with Ezra.

Because see, the thing is, Stiles gets it. Objectively, there’s a lot of truth to what Ezra said. Stiles spent a very long time living in this little make-believe world where he was able to convince himself of a lot of different things to do with Beacon Hills. Call him optimistic because it’s not like he legitimately expected to return ever. At most, he’d thought he’d come back to help his dad retire and move to New York with him.

In his defense, Stiles had tried. He’d really tried to compartmentalize everything he felt, sealing away all his emotions and all his feelings into tiny little boxes to be shut away in the farthest corner of his mind. So the last thing he expected was to be called out on it. Even his dad would leave him be, wouldn’t argue about how very clear it was that Stiles had _not_ managed to move on; instead, he’d simply look at Stiles, sigh, and nod like he understood exactly how Stiles felt.

“You’ve been quiet,” Lydia says, giving him a thoughtful look. Stiles blinks, breaking out of his thoughts and shrugs.

“Just thinking about Dad,” he mumbles, chewing on the straw of his iced latte, squirming under Lydia’s scrutiny.

It’s almost evening now; they’d been in the cafe for a few hours, coffees and scones in hand and laptops on the table, both furiously researching through all possible folk lores to find the culprit of this mess. Demons, harpies, redcaps, trolls, pagan gods but nothing that explained the smell of death and the manipulation of the raw energy.

It’d been a tough week so far. He, Ezra, and Lydia did research day in and day out while the rest of the pack worked with the Sheriff’s department to follow any physical leads. The problem was that it’s been too quiet on the physical front since his dad’s attack.

She sighs. “It’s okay to be not be okay, you know.”

“Can you draw me a map to that sentence?”

She rolls her eyes, huffing, but it’s with fondness, like she missed their banter. “Oh shut up, Stilinski. Seriously though, how’s everything going? We never got a chance to talk at the grocery store.”

Stiles squints at her, exhaling sharply, not knowing where to even begin. “Well, my dad’s been in the hospital for, what, like five days now? He hasn’t woken up yet and nobody knows what the hell is wrong with him in the first place. I’m going through this for the second time with the only family I have left and I feel just as helpless now as I did when I was ten. I’m back in a town that I hate and forced to talk to and work with people that I left behind for good reason - except you, obviously - and it seems like the only reason all of this shit is happening in the first place was because I left in the first place. Does that answer your question?”

Lydia hums, covering one of his hands with her own and squeezing tightly. Stiles can feel his eyes burning with tears so he ducks his head, refusing to meet her eyes.

“I am sorry about all that, you know. I understand why you left and you deserved to leave. We always used to say that if there was one of us who could just leave everything behind and move on, it was you. I mean, that was also before the whole magical spark business but still.”

She pauses before continuing, “I think they all thought that at most you’d just stop coming by. Or that you’d leave for college but come back, you know? Maybe not come back to us per se but at least to your dad here. We also thought you were going to Berkeley; we didn’t even realize you’d left for New York until Derek couldn’t catch your scent anywhere and your dad told Scott when he asked about it. I don’t think any of them realized that we’d lose you forever.”

Stiles nods, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, I told him not to tell anyone. After you came to see me at the hospital, it hit me that you were the only one that did. For all the shit they used to say about how important I was to the pack, I didn’t even get a courtesy visit from anyone else, never mind one from Derek or Scott. That was what did it for me. As soon as I got access to my phone again, I called up Berkeley and then Columbia to get everything sorted. I always felt bad not telling you about it but I was just so angry that - fuck, I was just _so_ angry.”

Lydia nods emphatically, shooting him a soft smile. She has a beautiful smile, he thinks offhandedly. It lightens her entire face and it occurs to him how free and open she is with her smiles now. In high school, he had rarely seen Lydia with a genuine smile on her face; she wore a mask for each clique she was part of, fierce and all-knowing that she was— _is_.

“You deserved to be. I wasn’t happy with them for a long time. I knew what it felt like, when you have no control over your own actions and someone just makes you do things. I would have thought that Scott and Derek, more than anyone else, would have understood that too but I guess not.”

Stiles gives her a wane smile. “Scott doesn’t realize who he’s hurting in his quest to save people. He tries so hard to have his cake and eat it too that he forgets someone else might be hungry. He wants to protect everyone and save everyone but he – he just doesn’t understand that sometimes it’s just not possible to do all that without collateral damage.”

Lydia shrugs, rubbing her thumb on the back of his hand, gazing out the window absentmindedly. They’re quiet for a few minutes and Stiles takes the time to get himself back in order.

Most nights in the past week, Stiles would be shaken awake at various points of the night, his body quivering with excess magic that seemed to be responding to something but every time he’d tried to follow the lead, he’d just end up at the old Hale house. Technically, that made sense since his magic was tied strongly to the Hale land, and as an extension to the house itself. Basically, the Hale house acted as a power plant for all the raw energy in the air. It put Stiles slightly at unease because his return to Beacon Hills should have been stabilizing the raw power but that wasn’t the case and unfortunately, Deaton was hardly any help in the matter.

“How’s your dad doing now?” Lydia asks. Stiles flickers his eyes at her before he gives the barest of shrugs, lips thinning.

“Not getting better but at least he’s not getting worse,” he mutters.

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s just frustrating because they have no _idea_ what is going on. They can’t treat him for something they can’t see. They’ve treated all his physical injuries but they have no idea what the hell is still holding him back from getting better. It’s like he’s in a coma.”

“Like Sleeping Beauty?” Lydia jokes, making Stiles huff.

“I guess. Fuck, I just wish I could do something, you know? I hate just standing there and seeing him wither away,” he mumbles, squinting at his empty plate. He briefly contemplates getting another maple walnut scone because those are to die for but ultimately decides against it. He doesn’t need the sugar rush.

Lydia nods sympathetically before perking up, eyes gleaming and mouth agape.

“Stiles! I can’t believe I didn’t think of this but can’t you try healing your dad?”

Stiles tilts his head at her, lost. “Um, what?”

“Werewolves can take away pain, right?” When he nods, she continues, “And the Nogitsune thrived off the pain of other people, meaning it was able to somehow transfer the pain they felt into energy for itself, yes? Maybe you can do the opposite of that but with your magic!”

Stiles still doesn’t know where she’s going with this. She rolls her eyes at his blank look.

“Have you tried to use your magic to heal before? I mean, it gives you the ability to heal yourself pretty much the same way that werewolves can heal themselves, right? So not try to transfer that part of your ability into your dad so he can heal? It’d be like a transference of magical ability from your body to his!”

Stiles’s eyes fly open at that, because holy shit – why hadn’t he thought of that? His magic certainly accelerated his healing process and if he combined that with the leftover abilities of pulling pain from others around him, he might just be able to reboot his dad’s body into healing.

Stepping into his magical potential was only truly possible after the whole Nogitsune business since it had left him with some residual power. If he hadn’t been a Spark, the residual magic from the Nogitsune could have killed him. But since he had the ability to control the magical energy and manipulate it to his will, it had only made him that much more powerful. Stiles would truly be a force to be reckoned with, Deaton had told him, a pleased look on his face.

“You’re a genius,” he breathes, as he begins to pack up his laptop. Lydia answers him with a beatific smile, obviously pleased.

 _Maybe it’ll work_ , he thinks, heart pounding. He shakes his head in correction.

_There’s no maybe. It has to work._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to take a moment to say thank you to each and every one of you who have read this fic, subscribed to it, followed it, kudo-ed it, and those who have left me some pretty awesome comments. I'm seriously so so so thankful for each and every one of you :)

The hospital is normally a thirty-minute drive from the cafe he and Lydia were at.

Stiles makes it in fifteen.

He’s renewed with hope, Lydia's words ringing loudly in his ears. He's not sure why he didn't think of it himself sooner. There'd been many occasions when he had been able to use some of his powers to heal Ezra or someone else in the pack during some particularly nasty run-ins with some New York hunters a few years back. It had been Elena's emissary, Stanis, who had told him he was more than capable of using little bits of his magic to accelerate the healing process of the injured werewolves.

By the time he gets to the hospital, it’s late and Melissa is nowhere to be found. Not that it matters because everyone there knows who he is and who he's there to see.

Stiles slips in to his dad’s room quietly, heart wrenching at the sight. Nothing much has changed for almost a week now; his dad wasn’t any better but at least he wasn’t any worse either. That’s really the only solace Stiles has. He and his dad may have had their issues in the past but Stiles still worships the ground the man walks on. He was Stiles’s hero growing up and sure, things got rough when his dad took to drowning his misery to the siren call of the bottles of single malt whiskey after his mom’s death but he got better. They both did.

Stiles sits on the chair beside the bed, drawing himself closer. He curls into the chair, wrapping his hoodie tight around his body. It’s not cold in the room, it’s a warm 73°F, but he’s shivering.

The monitors around the bed are luminescent with numbers and heartbeat waves, beeping periodically. Stiles doesn’t have to be a doctor to know that they’re beeping like they should be so he watches his dad’s chest rise up and down slowly with each breath. Sure, the doctors are useless in treating him right now but if nothing else, at least he knows that his dad _can_ get better eventually.

He leans forward, brushing some of his dad’s hair back, lightly caressing his forehead. Stiles takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. He feels the familiar warmth coursing from his heart, up his chest to his shoulder blades, and finally down both his arms to his hands tightly clutching those of his dad. When he opens his eyes, there’s a faint blue glow around his hands and a smile breaks out on his face.

His dad’s hands are cold but when the iridescence flows from his hands to his dad’s hand, it glows even brighter, before Stiles feels his dad’s hands slowly beginning to warm. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, but then –

 _Nothing_.

The glimmering blue glow fades away from his dad’s hands, receding back into his skin. Stiles’s smile falls. _No_ , he thinks, heart dropping into his stomach like a stone. He clenches his eyes shut and focuses harder, teeth grinding and his hands grasping his dad’s hands even tighter. His magic begins to reach down his arms again, flowing to his dad’s hand, but his dad’s hands don’t warm this time. It feels like someone severed the connection, because the magic fizzles out, thin wisps of faint blue smoke dissipating from his own hands.

Stiles’s eyes begin to water. He feels a sharp stab-like pain in his chest, like someone took a jackknife to his heart over and over and over again. He can heal fucking werewolves but when it comes to healing his dad - the one person in this entire world he would happily die for - there’s nothing. Apparently that’s too much to ask, he thinks bitterly, eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

There’s _nothing_.

His hands are still tightly wrapped around his dad’s so he just folds over, dipping his head into his forearms, and cries. It’s loud and painful, body trembling as the thought of losing his dad creeps into his brain once again.

 

Melissa shakes him awake the next morning. He shrugs her off a couple of times before the shaking becomes firmer and he blinks up blearily at her.

“You should go home and go to sleep properly,” she advises kindly, running her hand through his hair like a mother would. Stiles sighs, leaning into her touch, before getting up.

“I know. I thought I could help,” he mumbles hoarsely, blinking the fatigue out of his eyes. He looks up at Melissa, eyes watering slowly, before looking down at his feet like he’s just failed the most important test of his entire life. “It should have worked. I felt it work from me but it just won’t help him.”

There’s sand encrusted in the corner of his eyes and he rubs at the spot furiously. Call him weird but he loves rubbing out the sand - he was one of those kids who couldn’t resist picking at any scabs he’d get, partly due to morbid curiosity and partly due to the fact that he hated the bumps the scabs created over his otherwise smooth skin.

Melissa gives him a sympathetic smile, ushering him out of the hospital room. He throws another furtive glance over his shoulder, hoping for anything really, even just the tiniest flicker of movement from his dad, but there’s nothing so he follows her out.

Stiles decides to take the long route home, stopping at Deaton’s along the way. He pushes into the vet’s office, surprised to see that there’s a formidable crowd in the waiting room area, a rush of relief passing over him when he realizes Scott’s not working.

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Deaton, is he available?” he asks, striding up to the pretty girl behind the reception desk. She holds up a finger without even looking at him as she finishes tying out something - _billing information_ , Stiles notices - into the computer.

Stiles rolls his eyes, frustrated because this is urgent, but before he can manage to argue with her, the door to the clinic room opens and a short woman barely holding on to a squirming gerbil comes out with Deaton following shortly after. Stiles throws another glance at the receptionist – who’s still focused on her computer - before stomping over to where Deaton is and walking into the clinic room without looking back.

“We need to talk,” he barely gets out before he hears the girl behind the desk yell out, “Hey you can’t just barge in there!”

Stiles whirls around to face Deaton, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening. “Why didn’t it work?” he snarls. Deaton sighs, as if he knew what was coming.

“Stiles, I—”

“Why does it work with _them_ but not with my dad? And don’t say I can’t summon enough power because I fucking tried, okay? I sat there and I tried as hard as I could, pulling at every strong emotion out there. And I felt the power surge in me but it just fucking disappeared into thin air! So tell me, Deaton, why didn’t it work on him?” he almost shouts. His hands begin to shake, barely managing to constrain his anger. The blinds on the window behind him rattle in warning.

Deaton raises his hands up, palms out, in an attempt to placate Stiles.

“I don’t know why it didn’t work,” Deaton starts quietly with a frustratingly calm tone. “I’m sure that you did your best but you have to understand that magic doesn’t play by any normal rules; things like logic and rationality don’t apply to magic. It’s abstract in many ways that life itself is and we just have to ride it out. If you couldn’t heal your dad, my best guess is that there’s something else – something maybe more powerful – that’s interfering with your ability to forge a connection with him.”

“So how do I get it to stop interfering?” Stiles bites out, running his fingers across the cool operating table. The blinds stop rattling the calmer Stiles gets.

Deaton shrugs. “I wish I had a concrete answer to that. You need to be stronger and while Ezra provides a small sense of stability for you, it’s not enough. If whatever out there _is_ more powerful than what this town has faced so far, it means you need all the stability you can get. My suggestion is, and you may not like it, but you need to re-forge your bond with the pack, however temporary you may want it to be.”

Stiles widens his eyes, staggering back, twisting his mouth into a snarl. “You’re right, I don’t like it,” he mutters through a clenched jaw before storming out.

 

Stiles drives around aimlessly to clear his mind. The more he thinks about it, the more he can’t deny the truth. As angry as Stiles is, there is rationality in Deaton’s idea. Eventually, he finds himself parking by the side of the road, deep along the Preserve, just outside the town. He slams the door behind him, walks deeper into the Preserve, inhaling the warmth of the sodden Earth beneath him. Though he hasn’t been in these woods for almost a decade, he finds himself standing in the clearing he had discovered at seventeen when he was spending a night wandering around on his own (as foolish a decision as that may have been).

He looks around the clearing, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with the space; there are a couple of tree logs in the middle, surrounded by moss and fallen twigs, while large oak trees border the area. Dark red leaves crunch under the weight of him as he moves forward, walking deeper into the clearing. He drops down on the ground by one of the fallen logs, one leg stretched out while the other’s pulled back, drawing his knee to his chest.

Stiles leans back just enough to look straight up towards the sky. Over him, the tree crowns loom like they’re shielding him, protecting him, from the sky and he revels in their larger-than-life presence. There’s a faint buzzing of little critters around him that’s oddly calming and Stiles takes a deep breath, closing his eyes if only for a second.

When Stiles had recovered from his injuries, he’d felt himself weaken considerably and it wasn’t long before Stiles realized it’s because almost all the magic he’d learnt over the year and a half had disappeared. He found himself needing to relearn everything and it was a grueling process, having to learn how to use his magic to its full potential, how to remove his self-doubt, how to rebuild his self-confidence.

Everyday, he’d wake up and tell himself, “If I could do it once, I can do it again.”

But he’d needed to do it. As much as he wanted to give up, Stiles knew his dad wouldn’t let him out of his sight for a weekend, much less the four years of college in New York, if he didn’t think Stiles could defend himself against anything and everything.

In the wake of the loss of his pack, his dad anchored him long enough to regain his strength. His dad was the one who stuck by him, who drove him back and forth to physical therapy sessions, who was there for him through everything.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he hears from behind him. Stiles doesn’t turn around, instead waits for Allison to come around and sit down beside him.

“I never showed you this place,” he says by way of greeting.

“No, but Scott did,” she offers and Stiles nods. It made sense since Scott’s the one who showed Stiles as well. They stay quiet for some time before Stiles breaks the silence.

“He said I needed somewhere to go after my mom died; a place that was just mine,” Stiles explains.

“I didn’t ask,” Allison replies quietly. Stiles gives her a wry smile.

“Yes, you were not asking very loudly.”

At that, Allison huffs a small laugh.

“How is everything with you?” she asks, looking at him. Stiles takes a deep breath. “I mean – I know I might not have any right to ask or anything but I’m just worried about you and your dad. I can imagine what you must be going through so—”

“Why? Because your mom’s dead too so you think that gives us similar ground?” Stiles cuts in, immediately regretting his harsh words when he sees Allison flinch. “Fuck – I’m sorry, Allison, I didn’t – shit, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Allison doesn’t speak for a few moments, instead just focuses on the forest floor in front of them. “See, this is why I came out here.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks. Allison shifts her body so she faces him.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone I care about and blaming others for it. That hate, that anger, that rage, it ruins you. I know what it feels like when it fuels your every action, your every decision. If you let it fester, it changes you and unless you have someone to pull you out of it, it’ll change you forever. What we did was wrong but you have to try to remain above that hate.”

Stiles nods; both Ezra and Deaton had been telling him that for as long as he can remember.

“I know we haven’t spoken in a long time but I still care about you,” she insists. “We all do. We just don’t know how to make things right anymore.”

Stiles shrugs, gives her a wry smile. “Neither do I. Honestly, it’s been exhausting. Being this angry all the time isn’t fun and I just want to try to fix things but I just can’t.”

“What’s stopping you, Stiles? Is it that we’re not trying to make things right? Because—“

“It’s that neither Derek or Scott have apologized,” he bites, glaring at the leaves scattered over the ground. “Neither of them apologized for what they did. It’s one thing to do what they did but neither of them came to me after to even explain themselves. They never called after I left, never said anything, they just abandoned me. Can you tell me you know what _that_ felt like? When your brother and the guy you’re in love with just—“

Stiles breaks off, chest heaving. He takes a shuddering breath, leans his head back against the log, and stares above at the sky. Beside him, Allison nods silently. She puts a hand over his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I can’t be part of a pack like that. I’d be walking on edge every time because I don't think I’d be able to trust either of them again,” Stiles finishes quietly. Allison doesn’t say anything but Stiles curls his hand over hers. He takes a deep breath, feeling the chilly air cut away at his lungs. “Thanks for trying, Allison.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices her give a small, dimpled smile.

“I’m not done trying yet.”

 

Two hours later, Stiles finds himself turning into the large driveway of the Hale house. _The house I helped build_ , he thinks bitterly. He looks around, walking up the stairs to the porch, pausing only once when he sees a shrub of beautifully bloomed azaleas under a large oak tree. His eyes widen, unable to look away, and his body almost droops forward.

Azaleas were his mother’s favorite flowers.

“We had them shipped in from a pack in Georgia,” he hears behind him and whirls around to a worn-out Erica. She gives him a hesitant smile, looking like the old Erica, the Erica with the disheveled hair who was held back one too many times by her disability, for the first time since becoming a werewolf. She looks vulnerable, unsure.

The strain of whatever is going on in Beacon Hills along with the tension between the pack and Stiles had clearly taken a toll on the blonde. There were dark smudges under her eyes, face gaunt and hair frizzy. She’s even dressed in sweats and an old baggy shirt, items Stiles didn’t even know she owned. Erica’s surprised to see him but her face calms almost immediately, lips curling into a soft, hopeful smile.

For a brief moment, all he wants to do curl up around her, take her in, and just hold her, running his hands up and down her back and then through her hair because he knows that’s what she finds the most comforting. But he tamps down on the urge and settles for giving her a nod.

“Why?” he asks, swallowing a lump in his throat.

She gives him her patented _why do you think, dumbass_ look and the familiarity of their exchange makes Stiles release a huff of laughter, surprising them both. She opens the door wider, moving to the side so he can walk in.

The house itself isn’t much different than what he remembers. Maybe a few more photo frames on the walls and – is that a big screen TV? – but everything else is still the same. Various Cosmos and Vogue magazines are still scattered on the coffee table and there are DVDs and video games are strewn about the TV stand.

He feels better almost instinctually. The house itself still has the warm, cozy _home_ feeling that it always had.

And really, that’s what they’d all wanted when Stiles and Erica had pushed Derek into renovating the Hale house. The pack was tight and they were great together but they needed a home. Derek’s loft wasn’t doing it anymore and let’s face it – Isaac needed a real home to grow up in. Of course, Isaac’s house was always an option but at the same time, it wasn’t because there were too many bad memories attached to that house for him to feel safe in. The day Isaac signed off on the legal papers to sell the house, the pack had gone out and celebrated all night long.

There are multiple voices coming from the kitchen so Stiles walks towards it, standing at the doorway when he gets there. Nearly the whole pack is there, save for Allison and Lydia, and _fuck_ , is that Peter? God, does that asshole ever just leave and _stay_ away?

Erica clears her throat from behind him and slides into the room around Stiles. And suddenly, everyone freezes when they notice him. They stare at him, unsure of how to proceed. Stiles looks around the room before settling his attention to where Scott is seated at the breakfast table.

If he’s being honest, Stiles has no idea what to do either.

He came here because Deaton suggested it and because he knew Deaton was right. It was mostly anger-fueled adrenaline that led him here and now that he’s standing in front of them, in the house, he doesn’t know what to do. They’re all waiting for his cue but Stiles is just as clueless at this as the rest of them. He sighs.

“Deaton suggested that I regenerate the bond with you all,” he says, direct and to the point. There’s no point in dragging it out and the faster it gets out, the faster they can get to finding out what’s responsible.

They all look at each other, confused.

“Regenerate the bond?” Scott asks, getting up. Stiles nods stiffly, looking away.

“There’s too much raw power here and if it keeps up, it can start becoming problematic for me. Obviously I’m not as powerful as I could be – _used to be_ – and being back here without a proper anchor can destabilize my magic and, by extension, me,” he bites out. “Unfortunately, neither Ezra nor my dad, given his current condition, can anchor me the way the pack used to.”

The words come out rushed, almost defensive, like he’s asking for something he has no reason to ask for. Thing is, he had tried. He’d tried so hard to build himself back up, piece by piece, and however achingly slow that went, he was still proud of everything he’d managed to do. He doesn’t want to admit he’s scared of having it all fall apart on him, of losing himself once more, if only because he knows that if he loses his magic, his control, one more time, there’s no recovering for him anymore.

He looks back at Scott and then to Derek and Erica and Isaac, Boyd, and finally Jackson, deliberately ignoring Peter.

“Who was your anchor back in New York?” Boyd asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Didn’t really have one. New York never had the same ability to procure and sustain my magic like Beacon Hills does – doesn’t have the history or the Nemeton. As long as I didn’t bond to a pack, it was just magic that belonged to me.”

“Deaton said it was important for you to always have an anchor,” Derek says softly, speaking to Stiles perhaps for the first time. Stiles flickers his attention to him, holding his stare for a moment. Like Erica, Derek looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days.

Stiles motions to Scott, giving them a stiff smile. “This pack _was_ my anchor.” He gives a shrug, ignoring Derek’s flinch. “Besides, my magic is tied to the Hale land so this is where it’s hardest to control. As long as I don’t align myself with a pack, I don’t need an anchor outside of Beacon Hills.”

“So what happens afterwards?” Scott asks, shifting to look at Derek and the rest of the pack.

Stiles crosses his arms across his chest, twisting his mouth. “We do this, we get the big bad, this town gets its stability back, my dad gets better, and then we dissolve the bond again before I leave.”

“Wait – you’re still going to leave?” Isaac interrupts, eyebrows furrowed, a hurt expression on his face.

Stiles raises a single brow. “Is there something else for me to do? I have a job and a life to get back to.”

“Look, I know we don’t have a reason to ask but—“ Erica starts.

“Yeah, you don’t, actually,” he interrupts, turning to her. “I didn’t come back for you guys. I came back for my dad. The only reason I’m standing here in the first place is because it’s the best way to make him better.”

“And dissolving the bond? I hear it’s quite painful for the pack mage to even survive the full onslaught of the bond breaking,” Peter remarks and though his tone is aloof, his face gives away nothing. Stiles sneers at him; it’s just like Peter to rub salt on open wounds.

“Well, it’s a good thing we won’t have to make the bond permanent this time so that won’t be an issue,” Stiles snipes back. Peter offers a thin smile, satisfied with the answer. Stiles turns to the rest of the pack. “I know you guys like to take decisions like this to a vote so you know where to find me when you decide.”

He swivels around, intending to leave but stops when he hears Scott. “Was it really that bad last time?”

Stiles turns back halfway, giving Scott a rueful smile. “What does it matter anymore, Scotty? The time to ask that question was eight years ago, not now.”

 

Ezra’s back by the time Stiles gets home, sitting on the back porch, a book of ancient runes held open in one hand and a glass of what seems like his dad’s single malt in the other.

“Drinking again?” Stiles muses and takes a seat beside the werewolf.

“You still have no scent,” Ezra says instead, flipping a page in the book, barely looking up at him.

“Yep.”

“But you’ve already made your grand entrance.”

Stiles snorts. “Doesn’t mean I want to be tracked throughout the town. Besides, we don’t know what we’re dealing with so I definitely don’t want to be found.”

“Speaking of which,” Ezra starts, turning to him and shutting the book. “The Redding pack’s Emissary, Jordana, has no idea what’s going on. It’s the same as us in New York. All everyone’s heard are the stories and the incidents – there hasn’t been any magical backlash anywhere outside of Beacon Hills.”

“So we’re targeted?”

Ezra shrugs. “Seems like it, I guess? I don’t really know. But yes, it looks like there’s something special about Beacon Hills. Whatever is happening here is also being contained here, even the rest of Beacon County is unaffected.”

Stiles frowns, because _that_ is new information. He leans back on his elbows, mulling it over.

“So you went to see Deaton? And you’ve been researching with Lydia, right?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah but we haven’t come up with anything either. It doesn’t sound like any creature we’ve ever come across or even heard of. We went through our bestiaries front and back, both the Hale bestiary and Argent bestiary. The only thing we know is that the places it visits always reeks of death and even then, we only have my dad’s attack to look at.”

Ezra nods, understanding. “So you need more data.”

“Basically, yes. But that means—“

“More attacks have to happen so you can start detecting the pattern,” Ezra finishes and takes a sip of the scotch.

Stiles snorts. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Ezra hums in agreement, taking a sip of the single malt.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you casually trying to avoid the Deaton question, by the way.”

“Stop being so attentive,” Stiles jokes, shoving at Ezra’s shoulder, laughing but sobers a moment later. He grabs the glass from Ezra’s hands, ignoring the indignant _hey!_ and downs the last remaining bit, savoring the burn as it pours down his throat, face somber. “He said I should recreate the bond with the pack. I tried to heal my father today and the transference didn’t work. Apparently, if I don’t have an anchor here in Beacon Hills, I’ll go stark mad.”

Ezra smiles. “An argument could be made that you’re already mad.”

Stiles laughs at that because it’s almost true. Stiles’s laughter sends Ezra into laughter as well. He doesn’t know about Ezra but Stiles misses little moments like this. Moments where you’re able to just forget everything else and laugh. Moments where the seriousness of life doesn’t apply for that period of time, however brief. Moments where you just feel like you’re seven years old because _damn_ , seven is a good age. It’s a good number – it’s a lucky number – but it’s a _good_ age. An age where you’re old enough to learn about all the curiosities in the world but young enough that you can afford to be ignorant of the things you don’t like.

“So will you do it?” Ezra asks finally, the last of his laughter thinning, bringing Stiles out of his reverie.

“I went to them and told them about it.”

“And what was the consensus?”

Stiles shrugs. “Don’t know. Left it up to the pack vote.”

“Can’t you just pick another anchor? Like your father? Like—“ he stops abruptly, turning his gaze to look at the fence bordering the backyard.

_Like me?_

The words go unspoken and so does the underlying implication.

The thing is, Ezra hasn’t exactly been secretive about what he wants from Stiles – to join his pack permanently – and it’s something that Stiles has actively considered before, _he has_ , but he’s never been able to say yes. A small part of him has always denied the idea because of the permanence of the action; attaching yourself to a pack as its sole mage is a link that’s rarely ever broken and he’s not sure if it’s a step he’s ready to take with the Coonans.

But there’s a much larger part that has to do with Derek. No matter how much Stiles has tried, he’s never quite managed to put Derek behind him.

He’s an itch under Stiles’s skin; always present, never absent, making his presence known in every part of Stiles’s mind. No matter how hard Stiles tries, the itch never goes away, looks over Stiles like a dark shadow.

Stiles settles for shaking his head. “I tried when this started. My dad would have been the most natural anchor but it didn’t take. Deaton thinks it’s because my magic is tied tightly to the Hale land so it’s tied to Derek and to an extent, Peter. Maybe not so much Peter because of the whole rising from the dead thing so he’s probably not organic enough for my magic. So it must be Derek, then Scott, and then the pack.”

“It comes full circle to Derek, huh?” Ezra asks, sardonic smile on his face. Stiles matches the expression.

“Of course. It’s always been about Derek in the end,” he murmurs.

Ezra hums thoughtfully. “I know we never talk about it but how’d it feel?” he asks quietly, tilting his head at Stiles, peering at him.

“What, when they forced the bond to break?” Stiles asks and at Ezra’s nod, he continues. “Dark. I mean, I’ve literally been _void_ before and you’d think that’s as bad as it could get but this was worse. Even the pain was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. Worse than when I literally died as a sacrifice to save my dad, than when I was possessed by a psychotic kitsune spirit, worse than when I was forced to watch silently as some _thing_ controlled me and made me hurt my friends.”

Stiles takes a shaky breath, fingers beginning to tremble at the rush of memories, and for a second he thinks he might get another panic attack but he feels Ezra’s hand rubbing him up and down his back. He leans into it, finding comfort in the familiar motion.

“After I got better enough to stand and walk on my own, I had to relearn everything. That entire summer, I was relearning my magic, relearning how to push my limits so I could withstand the backlash, especially since I was moving and I didn’t know what I would face in New York. It’s like when you hurt your knees and you have to push yourself past the pain in order to learn how to walk again. It was – it was crazy but I had to do it. I didn’t want to give them the benefit of the doubt that I could break so easily. They don’t get to have that satisfaction. Ever.”

“Would they have gotten any satisfaction from it?” Ezra questions.

“I don’t know, maybe, maybe not. Either way, I just didn’t want anyone to think I was weak, y’know? It was this idea that the whole reason they did it was because they didn’t think I was strong enough to hold my own between a pack of wolves. I needed to be strong and I needed to show them that I could handle myself.”

“Did they even realize the consequences of their actions?” Ezra asks, a quiet anger seeping into his voice, eyes flashing blue.

Stiles smiles at the deep rumble emanating from Ezra. Slowly, over time, Ezra had begun to get in touch with what it takes to be a good Alpha, the deep, abiding sense of protection and loyalty he needs to have before he’s fully ready to accept the responsibilities. It’s obvious why he’s being groomed to succeed Elena and Ezra has taken to it like a fish takes to water.

As such, sometimes he gets too overprotective of Stiles and sometimes it’s even cute. Most of the time, it’s kind of annoying but he hasn’t voiced that since it would be futile.

“I think Scott genuinely thought it wouldn’t be as bad as the books made it out to be,” Stiles admits slowly. He’s been thinking a lot about this for the past few days. “It’s just a bit different because unlike other packs, Scott and I had a very strong emotional bond before this whole werewolf business so the connection to the pack was much deeper than most others. Plus you have to consider Derek’s presence in the pack _and_ the fact that Scott became a True Alpha. It was obvious that it was a recipe for disaster for everyone involved.”

“Then why would you even want to do this whole thing again? Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s different if both parties are active participants. If I’m not aware of what’s happening, I get blindsided by the magic’s feedback, which is exactly what happened the first time around. I couldn’t do a thing to brace myself for it or even use my magic as a shield for the backlash. I just want to get this whole thing over and done with so I can get the fuck out of here, take my dad with me, and move on.”

Ezra nods. They both sit there for a while, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, just soaking it all in before both getting up and heading to bed.

 

The next morning when Stiles rolls out of bed, he finally thinks to check his phone to see if anyone’s tried to get in touch with him. That’s when he finally sees the notification for a voicemail message left on his phone along with five missed calls from Melissa. When he punches in his voicemail code at the prompt and listens to the message, he understands why there were five missed calls.

_“Stiles? You’re probably sleeping right now but I’d figure I’d still call. Your dad’s awake and he’s asking for you. Come by the hospital as soon as you get this message.”_


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles doesn’t even know how he gets to the hospital.

One minute he’s scrambling to change his clothes and get his car keys and another minute, he’s running into his dad’s hospital room.

The room is filled with doctors and nurses bustling everywhere in the room, checking the IV drip, rechecking the catheter and his dad’s chart. His dad’s awake and gives a big smile when he sees Stiles standing in the doorway.

“Stil—“ his dad manages to say before Stiles flies across the room and pretty much swallows his dad into his chest, holding him as tight as he can, loosening his grip only when he feels his dad wince.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” he breathes against his dad’s neck, burrowing his head into his shoulder. His dad’s arms give him a tight, reassuring squeeze.

When he finally lets go of his dad and turns around, Stiles notices Melissa standing across the room. She's dressed in her normal clothes, beatific grin on her face. 

“Mr. Stilinski, is it okay if we can get a few moments first to make sure everything is okay with the Sheriff?” he hears a voice from behind him and he looks back to one of the two doctors giving him a small smile. The stitched name on the white coat reads Dr. Finn. Stiles nods, moving out of the way enough for Dr. Finn to take his place.

Stiles ignores the murmurs between the doctors and nurses, choosing instead to focus on the fact that his dad was finally  _awake_.

For the first time since he’s entered Beacon Hills, he can finally fucking  _breathe_.

Taking his dad’s hand in his, Stiles rubs the back of his hand absentmindedly before looking over to Melissa and smiling.

“Thanks for calling,” he says and she shrugs, eyes glistening with a mixture of happiness and relief.

“Well, Sheriff, frankly, I have no idea how you’re awake and recovering but we’re glad to finally have you with us,” Dr. Finn grins. “We’ll keep the treatment we have you on and run some tests in the meantime. I still want to keep you here for a few days for observation but if everything checks out, you should be out chasing bad guys in less than a week.”

With one last smile, Dr. Finn waltzes out of the room and the rest of the nurses follow, leaving Stiles and Melissa in the room. Melissa lingers for half a minute more, moving to the bed to gently squeeze his dad’s hand, before leaving them.

“Good to have you back, John,” she calls out, shutting the door behind her. Stiles is still beaming when he finally moves to sit by the bed, raising an eyebrow at his dad.

“Okay, old man, let’s talk about practically giving your son a heart attack when he’s at work across the damn country.”

His dad answers him with a blinding smile.

 

Stiles stays with his dad for three full hours before one of the nurses finally pushes him out of the room despite his protests. Then again, her argument that his dad needs his rest isn’t exactly flawed and his dad  _was_  practically falling asleep by the end of the visit so Stiles leaves, promising to come back later that day. His dad simply gives him a tired smile and waves him off, finally settling into the bed and going to sleep.

By the time he leaves the hospital, Stiles feels much more settled, more calm and at peace, almost like he’s being rejuvenated. His dad waking up is a huge weight lifted off his shoulders. The fogginess in his head feels like it’s slowly disappearing enough for him to actually sit down and figure out what is going on in this town. And what to do about it.

He grabs a quick meal at Lucky’s diner and after sufficiently procrastinating for a couple of hours, he stops by his house to grab some old parchment paper for the bonding ritual.

The air outside Derek’s house is thick with power, a noticeable change than the rest of Beacon Hills. He reaches out with his mind, vaguely picking at small little wisps of magic, feeling happy at the light, delicate sensations that ease over him. Stiles looks around at the garden surrounding the house and back towards the edge of the Preserve; everything seems brighter, standing in stark contrast against the otherwise dreary day, almost like it’s alive with magic. Stiles darts up the stairs to the porch and enters the house without knocking, old habits showing.

The house is quiet when he enters, silence broken only by the faint murmurs coming from the upstairs hallway. Only Derek and Scott seem to be home, he notes in relief. As much as Stiles appreciates Isaac and Erica, he’d rather everyone stay away for the time being.

He walks to the kitchen and begins to collect the ingredients he needs for the ritual, which thankfully aren’t too complicated to gather; all he needs is some sage, some thyme, a handful of rosemary, and a few basil leaves, finding the herbs tucked away in the same cabinet he stored them in years ago. The rest is dependent on the spell itself, the blood of the Alpha, the Beta, and the Mage, and of course, the fire.

Almost as soon as he’s finished gathering the herbs, the voices upstairs fall quiet and a few seconds later, there’s pounding of footsteps coming down the stairs as Derek and Scott join him in the kitchen. Stiles glances at them quickly, just long enough to shoot them a nod of acknowledgment but otherwise ignores them. He fishes out the brittle parchment paper from his back pocket, flattening it on the marble countertop.

Stiles revels in the quiet, working systematically to set up everything he needs for the ritual. He used to crave noise, was physically incapable of withstanding silence. After his mom died, he found that the longer he stayed quiet, the more his demons haunted him, the more his mind began to wander at how old and frail his mom looked in her last days.

So he’d begun to fill his surroundings with noise, if only to ensure that his mind would never wander of its own volition. Often that meant filling the silences himself with weird, nonsensical rambling that was only made worse by his ADHD. Slowly, he began to compensate for the silence of others, finding solace in weaving intricate stories to either justify his actions or to get away with something from his dad.

There’s already a shift in the air surrounding them when he steps back, finished with the preparation portion of the ritual. The intent to perform the ritual has already begun to spark the magic of the Hale land surrounding the house and both Scott’s and Derek’s eyes are glowing of their own doing, in response to the magic.

 “Ready?” Stiles asks and at the nod from Scott and Derek, he begins to crush up the herbs, mixing them together. He divides the mixture into five equal portions, arranging them in the shape of two intersecting lines on the paper; one pile in the middle and four others placed at the top, bottom, left, and right to the middle pile.

Stiles starts to chant the necessary Gaelic words under his breath and almost immediately, they all feel the change in the air around them; the air crackles with magic, coming alive as it responds to Stiles. It makes him smile as he keeps chanting the same words repeatedly and with every repetition, the air grows thicker and thicker.

Stiles keeps chanting as he digs out a small iron dagger from his back pocket, wrapped delicately in a thin gray fabric. Grasping it with a steady hand, he makes a solid, clean cut on his forearm before passing the knife to Derek. He holds his arm over the small mixture in the middle, squeezing his forearm just above the cut to enable blood to seep out and fall on the herb mixture. Derek hisses as he copies Stiles’s actions – after all, the iron blade has been dipped in a special strain of aconite and wolfsbane – and as soon as Stiles takes his arm away, Derek holds out his arm over the middle of the parchment paper. Scott, as the Alpha, goes last.

As soon as Scott’s blood soaks into the herb mixture, Stiles’s body begins to glow a faint purple and he’s hit with a sudden onslaught of his magic mixing with the pack’s magic. The cuts have healed almost immediately but after eight years of not being part of the pack – or  _any_  pack for that matter – he’s not ready for what comes at him.

The blood of the three of them mixes in with the herbs, pooling in the middle of parchment paper. It’s motionless for only a brief second before four thin lines begin to form, each strip of blood moving towards the other mixtures in a faint crimson line. Once each line reaches its destined mixture, the entire parchment emits a faint yellow glow. Each of the four mixtures erupt in sparks and this is when the pain really sets in.

The response is powerful; his own magic is answering and  _flowing_  through every cell of his body and he feels like his brain’s going to implode. As far as pain goes, this is undoubtedly the most painful part of the entire ritual. It’s at this point that the magic is beginning to fuse together –  _in Stiles_. The power flowing  _through_  him,  _in_  him, is overwhelming and the pain resulting from that is a small price to pay for the strength he will acquire once this is all over. Scott and Derek look helplessly; aside from the blood contribution, the werewolves are rarely affected in the same manner but Stiles has to grip the counter to keep himself from dropping to the ground.

He shuts his eyes from the pain and when they open again only a brief moment later, they’re flashing purple. Stiles revels in the power; he feels  _everything_  now. He can  _feel_  the energy, its crispness and its clarity, flowing through his body. The power is raw, organic in every sense possible and it fills Stiles like he’s a vessel. His eyes close again, his teeth clenching together, as he struggles to keep his breathing even.

His grip on the marble counter tightens even more; his chest heaves up and down, mirroring the effects of a panic attack. All the noise around him falls away into a deathly silence, only the pulsating beats of his heart drumming in his ears loud and clear. When he looks around, it’s foggy, his vision blurring at the edges like a near-blind man losing the last bits of his eyesight. Stiles immediately finds Derek, greedily drinking every detail of his face because hell, if he’s about to lose everything, Derek’s the only one he wants to see. His arm reaches out towards Derek but he doesn’t touch, not because he doesn’t want to but because he can’t. Not while the ritual is still ongoing.

Slowly though, Stiles forces his breathing to regulate; _in and out, in and out, in and out_. He concentrates on his dad, on the few memories of his mom, on the pack. This is about him finding his anchor again so he lets nature play its course and grounds himself through the pack –  _his_  pack.

It feels like eons but gradually, everything just evens out. His breathing normalizes, the pain recedes, and the purple in his eyes fades. Stiles takes a deep breath through his mouth and then tension practically eases out of his shoulders. He feels settled now; like he’s achieved some sort of inner peace. As much as he hates to admit it, it feels good. 

 _He_  feels good.

The once-beige parchment paper is a dull brown now. All the herbs are well and truly burnt away from the paper, leaving nothing but ashen black spots in their place. Stiles straightens, taking it slow, throws away the useless paper, and shrugs at Scott and Derek.

“Did it work? Can – do you feel better now?” Derek asks, eyes boring into Stiles’s.

“Yeah, we’re good,” he says, trying to go for casual but failing. “Tied together once again, your pack and I.”

“It’s your pack now too, you know,” Scott adds softly. He looks like he wants nothing more than to just reach out and touch Stiles and Stiles – he understands, he does. Werewolves are tactile creatures by nature so the need to constantly touch your pack as way of casual grounding is completely understandable. And Stiles hasn’t felt like pack for years now so to feel that connection and not being able to rely on it takes a lot of self-control.

If he’s being honest with himself, he’ll say that he knows he feels like an old record player. There’s a part of himself that wants to reach out and just accept the pack and let bygones be bygones but there a small part that keeps him from doing so. It’s a small part with a large presence in his mind, reminding him constantly of everything he felt that night at the hospital.

But right now, he’s weak so he nods and immediately, both Scott and Derek practically jump onto him. Scott reaches him first and instantaneously wraps himself around Stiles, sticking his face into Stiles’s neck and taking a slow, deep breath. Stiles closes his eyes, feeling himself lean into Scott, into his  _brother_. He lets himself forget about everything for almost five minutes, finding a familiar comfort in Scott that he has never been able to find elsewhere. But as his mind settles down from being delirious from the pain, Stiles pulls away quietly.

Scott looks like he wants to protest, wants to hold onto Stiles forever but gives a small nod and lets go. Derek just smiles, grips the back of Stiles’s neck, and pulls their heads together so that their foreheads touch. They stand there like that, bodies flush together, Stiles’s fingers grasping tightly at the hem of Derek’s shirt almost instinctually.

“Thank you for coming back,” he breathes and Stiles nods before moving away.

“I’ll be back later with anything I find. Let me know if you find something,” Stiles says shortly before leaving.

As he walks out, he can’t help but feel that same want that’s been tugging at him for years now – the want that tells him that maybe eight years was long enough.

Maybe it’s time to just forgive and forget and move on.

 

His dad is eating orange jello, making a scrunched up face at him when Stiles gets back later that night. Stiles laughs, if only because his dad hates anything orange-flavored but makes no attempt at trading it for something more appealing like he knows his dad wants him to. He almost feels back about the triple grande white mocha he’s nursing but sits beside the bed, leaning back comfortably, one leg swung over the other.

“How’re you feeling?” Stiles asks, taking a sip of his white mocha. John glares at him over his jello cup, making him smirk.

“You know, seeing as how I’m still injured and hopped up on pain meds, the least you could do is be a  _good_  son and get me something to eat that I’ll actually like,” his dad complains, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hm…injured and on pain meds – gee, I wonder why you don’t get greasy and sugary foods to eat,” Stiles points out sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Watch it, kid. Don’t sass your old man,” his dad huffs.

Stiles laughs, “You missed it, admit it.”

His dad smiles, “I did, yeah. I’m glad to see you here, kid. Real glad.”

Stiles clears his throat, a small smile settling over his lips. He looks down before returning his gaze to his dad. “Me too. I mean, you know, I’d have preferred if you’d just skipped the whole almost dying bit,” he teases.

“How’s it going with all that by the way? I’m assuming that you’ve already been doing the research?”

Stiles shrugs because it’s better than admitting that after almost a week and a half of hardcore research, they’re still nowhere. Ezra had already reached out to most of the neighboring packs – even those in cities as far as Dallas and Seattle – but he’d come back empty handed. Stiles and Lydia had poured over every bestiary accessible to them and there was no mention of any creature that can cause so much instability in magic.

Whoever –  _what_ ever – this thing is, it’s smart enough to be undetected but strong enough to cause so much strain in the magic woven tightly through Beacon Hills. And aside from the attack on his dad, there has been nothing. It’s been radio silence on the attacking-people-for-fun part and it makes them all wonder if the Sheriff was singled out for a reason.

And that’s the part that scares Stiles more than anything.

His dad sighs. “I really wish I could just remember anything. I feel so helpless and I’m just – I don’t like being on the other side of this.”

Stiles gives a wane smile. “It’s okay dad, we understand. It’s not like we’re having much luck on any other front either so it’s fine. Whoever this is, they’re strong enough to be able to cover their tracks from a pack of werewolves _and_ me.”

“Speaking of werewolves…” his dad looks at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. Okay, he had this coming, he knows. Stiles had been expecting this line of questioning from his dad for a long time.

After all, he had never told his dad what had pushed him away from Beacon Hills. Instead, Stiles had shied away from The Talk for all these years none-too-delicately. His dad – bless him – had accepted his decision to withdraw from Berkeley and go to Columbia quite well and frankly, Stiles had been surprised. He had.

Especially since he hadn’t even bothered to tell his dad of his decision until he had already withdrawn from Berkeley and accepted Columbia. His dad had just peered into his eyes for a long moment, sighed, and nodded. And then asked him if he wanted to go on a weeklong road trip from all the saved vacation time he had. Stiles had agreed in a millisecond.

Point is, his dad had never pushed him to talk about any of it.

They never once talked about what happened or why Stiles was practically fleeing to New York. Obviously, his dad knew there’d been a falling out of sorts – the sudden lack of the pack’s presence in and around their home was an obvious clue but he never asked anything. He’d accepted every decision Stiles made with the kind of patience, love, and understanding only a loving parent would have, like a parent willing to go to the moon and back for their kid.

So Stiles sighs, knowing all to well that it’s time. “Alright, let’s have it, Sheriff. You have eight years worth of questions – give it your best shot.”

His dad smiles at the title but gives his son a peering look – one that Stiles has been on the receiving end of for years now. It usually meant that his dad was trying to figure out the best opening question. Years of being a Deputy and then a Sheriff had taught John Stilinski one thing and that was how to be a damn good interrogator.

“Was Derek the reason you left?”

Stiles smirks into his coffee. Trust his dad to go for the throat. He voices his opinion as such and is rewarded with a smirk in return.

“He was part of it, yes,” Stiles says finally, gulping down the last of his coffee. It’s almost cool by then so the sweetness of the white mocha syrup is much more enhanced but Stiles barely feels it. Aftter all, he’s always had a sweet tooth. He fidgets with the paper cup sleeve, eyes drawn down, avoiding his father’s gaze.

“But not the whole reason,” his dad muses when Stiles doesn’t continue. Stiles nods instead. “And you were –  _are_  – angry enough at all of them to not return all this time. Not even for a weekend.”

Stiles stays silent for a long time, his throat closing up. “Yeah.” His voice is hoarse when he finally answers and he clears his throat.

“I saw the aftermath, you know,” his dad points out and Stiles gives his dad a bemused look. “The aftermath of you leaving. Look, I wasn’t happy about Columbia or New York or you refusing to come home at all at any point once you left. But you were different after the hospital. You were all different. Scott didn’t come over at all after you got back and neither did any of your other friends – friends who I thought, at one point, had huge co-dependency issues, mind you. I picked up on that and more, Stiles. I knew something changed and once I saw the look on your face when you told me you were going to Columbia, I knew that forcing you to stay here would hurt you more in the long run.”

His dad looks away, pausing a conversation that was already beginning to leave a bitter taste in Stiles’s mouth. Perhaps he’s giving Stiles some time to come into terms with the fact that he never misses anything. It makes Stiles think that maybe all those times his dad asked him of what was going on when he was younger was just his dad pretending not to know. Maybe he’s just always known everything but likes to give everybody the benefit of the doubt.

Now that Stiles thinks about it, he realizes that maybe it was a privilege he abused.

He feels dirty.

“The aftermath was bad,” his dad continues finally. “I’d run into them – any of them – and it always just seemed like they were missing their spark, you know?”

Stiles smiles softly at the choice of words but says nothing.

“You could look at them and you’d be able to tell that they were missing something that they held very close to them.”

“Well maybe they shouldn’t have pushed me away then,” he says bitterly.

His dad sighs, pausing again, and eyes him up and down. “You’re still angry.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and one at which Stiles nods firmly. “Hell yeah, I’m pissed.”

John raises an eyebrow but Stiles can tell he’s concerned. “Stiles, that’s a whole lot of anger to hold on to for eight years.”

Stiles shrugs.

His dad rolls his eyes. “I know what Deaton said, Stiles. Your magic responds to your emotions. It’s why you need to  _feel_  but all this anger is ruining you right now.”

He knows his dad’s right. His dad’s always right. And this is exactly what Deaton warned him of after he accidentally started a thunderstorm after he had a huge fight with Scott back in their senior year.

His dad sighs, reaching out his hand to cover one of Stiles’s. “Look, I get it, okay?”

Stiles turns to him immediately, narrowing his eyes. “Do you, Dad? Are you sure about that?”

He’s on the defensive, he knows, like a caged snake riling up for a fight all too easily. It’s not the kind of attitude he needs to have with his dad but at the same time, his dad also doesn’t get to say he understands. He can’t; nobody can. Not unless they felt the break. 

His dad narrows his eyes in response, “I get that breaking the bond hurt you, Stiles. But neither Derek nor Scott seemed to be doing so well either. They’re hurting just as much as you and they have been for all these years. It wasn’t an easy decision but they did it because at the end of the day, they’d rather see you alive and walking rather than dead. And really, what’s your plan right now, huh? You’re going to stay angry with them forever? You’re going to keep running away from your home? Because that’s you’re doing right now, Stiles. You ran away to New York and I didn’t stop you. But you have to stop sometime.”

Stiles doesn’t reply but his defenses quickly break down. Everything his dad is telling him now is just in line with what he’s been feeling all day so it’s not a surprise to find himself nodding along in agreement.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just so hard though,” he answers quietly and looks away, fidgeting with his fingers, losing himself in his mind so much so that – that he almost misses it.

Stiles whips his head up, giving his dad a sharp look, narrowing his eyes at him. 

 _I get that breaking the bond hurt you_.

That’s what his dad said. 

 _It wasn’t an easy decision._  

His throat dries and he sits there, blinking owlishly at his dad, vision rapidly blurring in a maelstrom of betrayal and hurt. All the noises in the room, the incessant beeping of the machines, the soft whirring of the wind outside, fall away into a deathly silence only filled by the erratic thudding of his heart. The realization makes Stiles feel like he’s been doused with cold water and it must show because his dad immediately pales when he realizes his mistake.

“Stiles—“

“I never told you what happened, Dad,” he interrupts quietly. The paper cup in his hand begins to crumple from the tightness of his grip. He lets it fall and buries his head into his hands, hunching over his seat. “How do you know what happened?”

The erratic beating of his doesn’t go away, only gets louder and louder.

His dad doesn’t reply, probably because he has nothing to say. Nothing that would make this moment any easier on either of them. Nothing that could excuse what he’s inadvertently just admitted out loud.

So Stiles repeats himself, voice cracking at the end. “How do  _you_  know what they did, Dad. You weren’t there and I never told you.”

His dad is quiet for a while, as if considering what to say and more importantly, how to say it.

“ _Dad_!”

His dad sighs, closing his eyes briefly. He opens them again and looks at Stiles so intensely that Stiles just knows something big is coming. “I know because I asked them to.”

They sit together, a numbing silence between them. Stiles doesn’t know how he feels. If he’s being honest, he wants to laugh; laugh until he forgets that his dad hadn’t just admitted to screwing him over, laugh until he doesn’t feel the pain of this sucker punch, laugh until the laughs fall away into cries.

His dad tries to get up, to reach out to him, to hold his hand so Stiles withdraws instead, jumping out of his chair to pace around the room.

“Asked them to  _what_?” Stiles asks, because he needs to hear it.

“I asked them to break the bond between you and the pack.”

It takes everything Stiles has to be able to breathe again. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah. So. I'm sorry? This chapter is inhumanely late, I know, yes, but work got so freaking crazy that I just couldn't write anything for the longest time. Plus, I really really wanted to write porn for this and I've literally never written any kind of porn so it took me a good month to actually write it. Ironically, I managed to write it within two days once I actually told myself to get over it and start writing it so um, yeah? 
> 
> It is my first time writing it and it is unedited so be kind and let me know if it sounds stilted or weird. I need to learn and get better after all *winks* 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this one!

The clock in the corner of the room indicates that only minutes have passed but it feels like hours.

At first, Stile’s brain completely blanks, lost in itself. A moment later, a constant loop of replay begins in his mind, and suddenly, his brain kicks into overdrive.

Flashes of memories give way to one another, jumping from one to the next, his brain replaying every single moment, looking at every single detail, with only one question in mind: how did he ever miss this?

Stiles opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead, there’s a sickly feeling in his throat, like bile rising up so he closes it.

It takes forever for Stiles to get himself in order.

“How could you do that to me?” Stiles asks quietly. He doesn’t look at his dad, keeping his eyes trained on the abandoned paper cup on the ground.

“Stiles – “

“All this time you knew exactly what happened and you made me feel guilty for leaving you behind,” Stiles continues, like his dad hasn’t said a word. “You realize that, right, dad? It tore me up to leave this place – to leave _you_ – without any explanation but I guess it turns out none of that was necessary after all, huh?”

Stiles finally looks up and his dad looks gutted. The guilt is clear as day on his face.

“You were all I had left—“

“Bullshit!” Stiles sees red. “That’s the excuse you’re going to use? The whole I-did-it-for-your-own-good routine? Really?”

“It’s the truth and I’m not going to apologize for what I did, Stiles,” his dad says, throwing his arms up in the air.

Stiles laughs, but it’s lacking in humor. “Well then that’s it, right? No point in saying anything else.”

His dad gives a pained sigh. “Son, maybe you’ll understand when you have a kid of your own but you have no idea how I felt when I saw you torn up on that hospital bed. Do you understand that? Your chest was in _pieces_ , Stiles. I could see your goddamn bloody ribs inside! A father shouldn’t have to live in fear that he’s going to outlive his own child.”

“I suppose talking to me like an adult was out of the question.”

“And how would that conversation go? I tell you I want you to get out and you refuse point blank. We’ve had so many iterations of that same conversation and you’ve always refused. You’re loyal to a flaw, Stiles. There was no way you were going to just up and leave.”

“So you forced it instead, right? Consequences be damned,” Stiles sneers, callous in his words, making sure it cuts deep. “As long as you got what you wanted.”

“That’s not fair! We didn’t know it’d be so difficult—“

“That’s the problem with all of this, isn’t it?” Stiles shouts. “You and Scott and Derek! All of you think you know everything, like you know exactly how it’s going to turn out. You guys don’t think about – you just don’t _think_.”

He falls quiet, his breathing ragged. When he looks at his dad again, his face is carefully blank. “I hope you’re happy, dad.”

“We thought—“

“Just stop, okay? I don’t care anymore,” Stiles says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m done with all this. Every time I think I finally understand what’s going on, I just get blindsided. And it keeps happening over and over again. There’s only so much a guy can take.”

He shrugs miserably, staring at his dad, before abruptly getting up.

“Stiles, come on, just hear me out, please?” his dad pleads and if it was any other day, Stiles would plop down and give in. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. But not today.

He’s by the door, hand wrapped around the door handle, when he pauses and looks back because there’s still one question left unanswered. Or rather, unconfirmed. His dad looks scared, like he’s going to lose Stiles all over again and it breaks Stiles’s heart. He wants nothing more than to just crawl in the bed with his dad and pretend like none of this ever happened.

“Who did you talk to?” he asks instead.

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t have thought to break the bond all by yourself. You wouldn’t even know where to begin with all that stuff. It takes research and knowledge of how intimate pack bonds work. Even Scott wouldn’t know since he’s a bitten wolf and pretty new to this business so that leaves a handful of people: Deaton, Lydia, and Derek. So who told you that the bond could be broken?”

His dad pauses, as if unsure whether or not his answer would do more damage than good, before looking away. And with just that little motion, Stiles had his answer. He nods to himself.

“It was Derek, wasn’t it?”

Predictably, his dad says nothing.

“I thought so,” he shakes his head ruefully. “You know, I would have thought that you would understand the need to protect the ones you love. After mom died, you still went out every night to protect this town. After getting trapped under the Nemeton and facing off against the Darach, you _still_ went out. You’re all I have left but you still did what you had to do and I never stopped you because you’re the Sheriff – you’re the protector of this town. Of all the people, you should have understood why I could justify getting a few scratches if it meant I could protect the people _I_ love.”

His legs feel light, like jelly, like they’re no longer able to carry his weight, when he walks out of the room and the hospital, barely making it to the Jeep before collapsing against it. He’s not sure how long he stays out there on the ground, knees pulled up against his chest, hands locked around his knees and head buried in his arms. He focuses on breathing, slow drags of air in and out, counting each breath he takes if only to remind himself to keep breathing.

Stiles tries to clear his mind but the only thing he can think of is what his dad just told him, those awful words repeating themselves in his mind like a broken record player. He runs a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to clear his head but if tries to forget what his dad said, then it’s memories of him and Derek that haunt him instead.

It’s the memory of every touch, every press of lips, every smile he’s gotten from Derek that haunt him. Even after all this time, Stiles feels the ghostly presence of Derek everywhere on his skin, everywhere Derek touched him, worshipped him, everywhere Derek made him his.

Stiles shudders, feeling cold and wraps his arms around his knees even tighter, as he loses himself in the memories that he’d been so careful to keep locked up in the farthest depths of his mind. But the lock’s been opened now and he feels like he’s drowning in a sea of hurt.

 

_The thing is, Stiles had spent the better part of his eighteen years loving Lydia Martin. Well, at least what he thought was love. It starts when he sees Lydia dress up as Ariel from The Little Mermaid on Halloween in the second grade and then handing Jackson his ass when he dares to imply that he should be Lydia’s Prince Eric._

_She goes off on him about how much she doesn’t need a prince. She’s already the princess of all the seas so really, what could Eric give her that she didn’t already have? And really, did she seem like the kind of girl who would give up her voice just for a boy? It takes Lydia less than two minutes to make Jackson cry and in that time, Stiles is done, utterly mesmerized by this girl who’s not just beautiful but also quick as a whip._

_So for the next eight years, he spends any free time he has working on how to get Lydia to notice him. Lots of things change in those eight years; his mom dies, his dad turns to alcohol, his ADHD gets worse, and he and Scott go through several fights. But one thing remains constant. He is Stiles Stilinski and he’s undoubtedly in love with one Lydia Martin._

_That remains constant until Scott gets bitten, becomes a werewolf, starts dating the daughter of a hunter, and Derek Hale enters their lives. Suddenly, Lydia becomes the least of Stiles’s worries. Now his attention is divided between the latest threat to Beacon Hills, how to make sure Scott doesn’t end up killed by the Argents, and somehow saving Derek from making dumb life decisions when the situation calls for it – which is practically every other day._

_It’s no wonder really that eventually Stiles finds himself at a crossroads of sorts, where one road leads him to Lydia – who’d begun to pay more attention to him after her role in the supernatural business – and the other road leads him to Derek. Picking Lydia would be the easy decision. Really, it’s reinforcing the only thing that Stiles ever knew so why would he even question it? But…it’s not that easy. Not anymore. And Stiles was never a fan of easy, anyways._

_Naturally, he takes the road that leads to Derek._

_And yeah, it’s not easy. He’s never had much luck with relationships – any of them for that matter – but Derek comes with enough emotional baggage for all of Beacon Hills. So it takes time. Specifically, two years. Suddenly, he’s eighteen, about to head off to Berkeley, about to leave Derek behind and it makes him realize that no, he’s not okay with all this. Stiles feels everything he never felt for Lydia for Derek and Derek denies him for the sole reason of holding himself accountable for Paige and then Kate and then Jennifer and no._

_So it goes like this. After a particularly bad session with Deaton, Stiles all but rage-drives to Derek’s loft. He slams the door open, not waiting to be invited in, and corners Derek against the kitchen counter where he’s cooking dinner and kisses him, pouring every bit of desperation and anger and frustration into that kiss. He grips the hem of Derek’s shirt tightly, pressing himself as close as he can to Derek, and hopes that he’s saying everything he never could with that one kiss and that Derek understands. When Derek finally reboots and slides his arms around Stiles, brings him closer and responds back with equal ferocity, Stiles almost wants to cry in relief._

_They kiss like two hormonal teenagers (well, Stiles has an excuse in that regard at least), hot and eager and sloppy. Arms tangled around each other, mouths sliding together like everything’s just snapping back in place and it’s beautiful. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to break away, look into Derek’s eyes and pant, “Bed.” And Derek can’t do anything but nod, eyes hazy with want._

_They stumble up the stairs and into Derek’s bedroom, messily grabbing at each other and ridding each other of their clothes along the way. By the time Stiles’s back hits the bed, they only have their boxers on. Stiles smirks lazily, sliding back, as Derek falls on him, bracketing him against his arms._

_“You’re a menace,” Derek mumbles against his neck, taking a slow breath. Stiles slides his arms around Derek’s waist and runs his fingers up his spine, making him shudder. He smiles into Derek’s shoulder, gripping his hair tightly and tugs Derek’s head away from him. Derek’s eyes flash blue at the show of power and he growls, not that it has any effect on Stiles. Well – no negative effect, considering the way Stiles’s dick jerks at the sound. Derek moans before grinding down on Stiles, making him groan in return. He pushes his nose into Stiles’s neck again before finding his mouth with his own, biting at Stiles’s lower lip._

_“Yeah, we’re gonna have to actually get naked real soon, just so you know,” Stiles pants into his mouth, moving his hands from Derek’s hair and sliding Derek’s boxers off before lifting his hips to get rid of his own. They both moan at the feeling of both their dicks touching, rutting against each other. Derek pulls away, content in just staring at Stiles’s disheveled face, and it makes Stiles squirm under all that attention. “Hey, are we ever going to continue onwards or are you just going to stare at me?”_

_“You’re so romantic. I’m so lucky,” Derek snorts, nibbling at Stiles’s jaw._

_“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want romance? Okay. Derek. Der-bear. Honeybuns. You are the wing beneath my wings, you’re the sun to my moon, the stars to my—“ Stiles laughs as Derek attacks his mouth but his laugh soon turns into a full out groan when Derek reaches between them, cupping both their hard-ons together with one hand._

_“Nothing to say anymore?” Derek hums against Stiles’s cheek, smirking. Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek, breath hitching at the feel of Derek lazily jerking both of them off. He thumbs at the tip of Stiles’s dick before moving down Stiles’s body, pressing wet open-mouthed kisses as he goes lower and lower. Stiles whines at the loss of warmth and props himself up on his elbows and really, it’s a beautiful sight._

_Derek noses down his happy trail and places one last kiss just above his navel before taking all of Stiles’s dick into his mouth and – holy shit. It’s a good thing Stiles is already on the bed because there’s no way he’d survive this if he were in any other position. Derek grips his hip with one hand while his other hand winds tightly around the base of Stiles’s dick, making the teen shudder in delight._

_He can feel his dick hitting Derek’s throat for fuck’s sake and he cries out, equal parts pleasure and desperation. Stiles grips the back of Derek’s head with a free hand, guiding his head as it bobs up and down his dick, tongue swirling around the head like he doesn’t want to miss any part of it. If kissing Derek felt like heaven, Stiles has officially just entered a new form of Nirvana right now and he’ll be damned if he ever left. Without even realizing it, Stiles begins to thrust his hips up and as if they’re on the same wavelength, Derek’s head slows down to a near-stop, letting Stiles take over._

_“This okay?” Stiles has to ask because as much as he’s into it, Derek might not be, and this night is as much about Derek as it is about him. Derek peers at him through his lashes before giving him a short nod. Stiles sighs in relief and his hips slowly resume their motion, at first going gently because he’s going to let Derek set the pace on this one. So he goes slow, his hand still gripping Derek’s head, keeping it in place, but when Derek makes a frustrated noise and pinches his side, he begins to move faster._

_Stiles pants, falling back on the bed again, and shit, this is the best feeling he’s ever had. This moment right here where he suddenly realizes how much Derek trusts him to give him the reigns on this one, to call the shots and to know when to give hard and when to hold back, is enough to fill any doubts he might have had about this whole thing._

_“Shit – Derek, I think I’m –“ Stiles tries to pull out, to stop, but Derek’s hands tighten around his hips, encouraging him to keep going and that’s all it takes for the wave to finally it, for his body to finally tense up before he comes, spilling down Derek’s throat. Stiles pants heavily, trying to catch his breath as Derek pulls himself up and kisses him. Stiles moans, tasting himself in Derek’s mouth, and he grips Derek’s ass with his hands, arching up. Derek’s still hard, obviously, so Stiles slides a hand between them, winding it around Derek’s dick and beginning to jerk him off._

_“How do you want it, big guy?” He asks, lips curling up to a smile. Derek looks at him for a moment and Stiles just knows so he doesn’t even wait for him to answer before he’s pushing Derek off and reaching back as far as he can to where the nightstand it. He pulls open the first drawer and fumbles around until he feels the familiar shape of the condom and the lube._

_“How do you even know where that was?” Derek huffs._

_“You’re a guy. We need to have easy access to this shit. Duh,” Stiles laughs. “Do you wanna do the honors or shall I?” He’s looking at Derek with a sly expression on his face and it takes everything in Derek to not just flip him over and have his way with him. He takes the lube first, liberally coating his fingers with it._

_“Ready?”_

_“Yes, yes, yes,” Stiles grunts impatiently. “This needed to happen like yesterday. Why are you still taking so goddamn long?”_

_Derek rolls his eyes but gives Stiles a quick peck before gently sliding the first finger into him. Stiles arches back at the feeling, head thrown back, and his breath hitching as Derek slowly slides his finger in and out._

_“Ah – f-fuck,” he gasps, pulling blindly at Derek. He’s happy to oblige, moving up and pressing their bodies together. As soon as Stiles gets adjusted, Derek adds another slicked finger, this time not only pushing them in and out but also curling into Stiles. And then a third finger._

_Stiles takes quick, shallow breaths because yeah, he’s done. This – this is going to kill him but if he’s being honest, if he had to die, this is how he’d want it. He lifts up a knee, foot resting against the mattress and gasps as this new angle allows Derek to hit at his prostate just right. Derek pushes his fingers in deeper, kissing the moans right out of Stiles’s mouth, and begins to set a fairly fast pace._

_“Now, Derek, for fuck’s sake,” Stiles pants. He feels Derek smile into his neck as he begins to suck on the pale stretch of skin. Their mouths slide together one last time before Derek pulls his fingers out and moves away from Stiles just enough to slide the condom on and coating it with some lube. Stiles immediately protests at the loss but it’s not long before Derek resumes his position, using a hand to slowly guide his dick into Stiles. He pushes inside slowly and gently, keeping his eyes directly on Stiles, taking in every flutter of his eyelashes, every twitch of his lips, every flicker of his eyes._

_Stiles pants as Derek’s hip begin to thrust into him a little faster, reaching up and resting his hand on the nape of Derek’s neck, his thumb making small circles on his cheekbone. Stiles slides his other hand around Derek’s back, blunt nails digging into his spine, at the same time that Derek builds up his pace even more. The sounds of their shallow breaths and skin slapping on skin fill the otherwise quiet room. Stiles tips his head back, biting his lips from crying out, as Derek changes the pace yet again, filling him slow and deep and as soon as Stiles gets accustomed to that, Derek smirks and drives into him with a quick snap of his hips._

_Their mouths find each other again but there’s no kiss that happens. Instead, they pant loudly into each other’s mouths, faces pressing against one another, and it’s this weird sense of intimacy that Stiles has never known with Derek but one that he wants every day now. It feels like Derek is slowly taking him apart at the seams, like he’s digging himself under Stiles’s skin but Stiles can’t protest – he doesn’t even want to. He wants Derek to get under his skin, wants Derek to make a home and just – stay._

_They both shudder as Derek slams one last time into Stiles, body convulsing and arching back as he finally comes. They stay in the same position, trying to catch their breaths, reveling in the silence. Slowly, Derek slides out and reaches down to glide the condom off before tying it up and tossing it into the trashcan by the dresser. Stiles closes his eyes, still trying to catch his breath, and wipes the thin layer of sweat forming on his face. He feels Derek moving around beside him, maneuvering their bodies so that he’s spooning Stiles, arms tucking Stiles into Derek’s chest._

_“Stay,” Derek murmurs into Stiles’s shoulder and he looks back, taking in Derek’s soft expression. It’s one of the rare times that Stiles has seen Derek looking at him in such an open manner, eyes lighting up with the hope that Stiles would stay, a small but beautiful smile gracing his face that he can’t do anything but nod._

_Because yeah, Stiles would stay, for as long as Derek wants him to for the same reason that Stiles would give Derek the fucking world if he asked._

It’s almost midnight by the time Stiles is finally calm enough to get in the Jeep and drive. His hands still shake as they grip the steering wheel but they’re nowhere as bad as they were just minutes before. There are so many things Stiles feels right now – angry, hurt, betrayed – and fuck, he is just so tired of all this shit. He’s sick of feeling the same mess of feelings over and over again and he’s sick of having to live a life where he constantly has to look over his shoulder to make sure he won’t get screwed over again.

And the problem is – he gets it. At least from his dad’s perspective, Stiles totally gets it. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered how to make his dad quit his job after his mom died because even sleepovers with Scott didn’t help when he had to see his dad go off into the night to defend the town. Sure, Beacon Hills is a small town where nothing almost happened but it’s not like Stiles knew the difference back then.

So yeah, he gets it. He understands the need to protect your children from the bad in the world. He understands how far a father can go if he had to choose between his child surviving or his child dying. And his dad is right. With the loyalty Stiles has, the likelihood of Stiles dying as a result of a supernatural conflict is infinitely higher than something normal like a car accident.

But it still doesn’t make the hurt go away. Because as much as Stiles can understand why his dad might have taken those steps, he doesn’t understand why his dad never told him the truth.

Stiles makes it to the Hale house in less than half the time. If he was driving fifteen miles over the speed limit, well, it’s not like he was pulled over at any point. He stares at the house; it’s truly a gorgeous piece of architectural design. It bore several small resemblances to the original design, just enough to remind them of the legacy of the pack before them.

Derek had always wanted to rebuild the old house – he’d denied it on several occasions – but Stiles had caught that far-off, happy looks on his face one too many times when he became more and more comfortable with talking about his past. Derek had never expected any of the pack to move in; he just wanted to provide a safe haven for everyone to come together and have each other’s company no matter the time and day. Of course, it didn’t stop Isaac from moving in the minute he turned eighteen and was able to leave his foster family.

He takes one last deep breath, steeling himself for what’s about to come. With each passing day, it’s been getting more and more difficult for Stiles to reign in his emotions. To keep a rational head. Stiles could feel himself losing control more and more each day and it physically takes everything he has to hold on to his humanity. Every mage was capable of light and dark – of _becoming_ light and dark. Stiles was never at the risk of doing magic in its darkest form but if he couldn’t control himself – if he let his negative emotions feed his power – well, the result wasn’t going to be good.

He jumps out of the Jeep, slamming the door behind him and pounding up the porch. He doesn’t knock, just flings it open and bursts into the house, barely even taking note of who’s present. Seven pairs of eyes snap to him when he enters the living room. Erica, Isaac, Allison, and Scott are poured over the coffee table with what looked like a giant version of the map of Beacon Hills. Ezra’s on the floor, looking over blueprints for all the abandoned buildings in town with Boyd and Lydia.

Derek – Stiles looks around, nostrils flaring – Derek’s walking back from the kitchen and it takes one brief glance at him for Stiles to stomp in his direction, fist his hands into the leather jacket and slam him into the nearest wall. Derek’s head connects to the wall with a hard crack, his eyes widening with both shock and pain.

“Stiles!” Lydia shouts from behind them. Chairs scrape against the hardwood as they push them back and jump up, eager to separate them both. “Stiles, let him go!”

He ignores her.

“You had _no_ right,” he hisses at Derek. His hands tighten on the jacket and he presses Derek further into the wall.

“Let him go, Stiles!” Boyd, this time.

“No, fuck that! He’s the reason for all this!” Stiles shouts.

“What are you talking about?” Ezra asks.

Stiles doesn’t answer but judging by the guilty expression on Derek’s face, he knows it. Stiles shakes his head, stepping back and letting go. Derek rights himself but stays rooted at the spot. He opens his mouth to speak but Stiles cuts him off.

“No, fuck you, asshole. You had no right to make my decisions for me and you had no fucking right to get my dad involved in it!”

“What would you rather do, Stiles?” Derek looks at him with apprehension. “Wait for the day we were too late to save you? You think any of us want to see you die?”

“That’s not your choice to make!” Stiles gives him a heated glare. “You didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. You – you could have done so much more than you did,” Stiles bites. Neither of them care much about the rest of the pack surrounding them; this confrontation has been a long time coming and if there’s an audience present for it, then they’re present.

“Like all the other times I’ve asked you to stay put and you’ve listened?” Derek reminds him. “Like the time I pushed you away from the Kanima and you jumped into the pool? Or wait, like the time you got yourself in a car crash when you were racing to save your dad from the Darach? Or hey, how about the time where your chest was literally _clawed_ _open_ by the goddamn harpies?”

Stiles sneers in return.

“Okay, how about we talk about your fucking martyr complex then, huh? You think I would’ve wanted to jump into the pool to save your ass, by the way, if you hadn’t tried to sacrifice yourself like an idiot? Or let’s touch on the time you got impaled by Kali and then still went after the Alpha pack like the dumbass that you were? Or let’s talk about this need you have to constantly have relationships with people who are _literally_ killers. You have this constant need to put yourself in a position where you’re the only one who gets hurt – it’s like you’ve doomed yourself to a life of hurt because your stupid fifteen year-old self couldn’t control his damn hormones!”

There’s a sharp inhale from behind him and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s hit the goldmine. Derek widens his eyes, as if unwilling to believe that Stiles actually went there and so callously too but Stiles refuses to back down. It’s almost primal what he feels but there’s a dark urge in him that needs to see Derek hurt. He needs to see Derek feel like the ground has been ripped away from under him and Stiles has to be the one to do it. It’s twisted but Stiles can’t seem to stop himself.

Eighteen-year old Stiles would have been disgusted by himself now but that Stiles was also a lot more naïve. He hadn’t been betrayed by three of the most important people in his life.

“Stiles—“ Ezra interrupts softly, stepping forward, reaching out for him but Stiles moves away easily without taking his eyes off Derek.

“That – you have _no_ right –” Derek says hoarsely, taking a step away from Stiles. His beautiful green eyes widen with a bitter mixture of hurt and shock.

“No right? You can’t bear to see me die but every time you put yourself in a position where you end up the loser I’m supposed to be okay with it and accept your life choices?”

“You have people to live for, Stiles! Your father, Scott, Melissa—”

“See this is exactly what I mean! Do you honestly think you’re worth nothing? Do you think that if you die, nobody’s going to care? You think Cora’s just going to be okay? And Scott? And me? What about me? You think I was just going to put a fucking smile on my face the next day and chalk your death up to fate? Is that it?” Stiles explodes, vibrating with anger.

Around them, photo frames begin to shake against the wall and blinds begin to rattle in the living room. If the whole house could shake, it would.

“Stiles, you need to calm down,” Ezra urges from behind him.

“ _Stay out of this_ ,” Stiles roars, snapping his head around at them. His eyes flash, purpling his vision, as anger seeps into his magic. “This has nothing to do with you!” He turns around to face Derek again, body surging with raw, electric power.

And herein lies the crux of his problem. Stiles has no problem controlling his own power but there are parts of his abilities he hasn’t even tapped into yet so when they get pulled to the surface, they need a channel – a channel that Stiles can’t provide. It gets worse considering this raw power attracts energy from their pack bond and the Hale land. There’s no way for him to control any of this.

Derek takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before looking at Stiles in the eye. “Considering our options, we made the best decision we could. I’m not going to apologize for saving your life.”

“Wow, did you practice that line with my dad?” Stiles asks, taking slow, deliberate steps towards Derek. “You know, when you decided to pretty much tear me apart in two? Did you make yourselves feel better by repeatedly saying the same thing over and over so that you could sleep at night?”

“Believe what you will, Stiles, but you weren’t there to see your dad practically breaking down on my doorstep because he thought he was going to lose the only family he has left.”

Stiles sputters angrily. “But I didn’t! The bond would have protected me – in fact, it did protect me until that night! It was healing me!”

“We didn’t know any of that! We had no idea what was happening so we took the step we deemed necessary! Don’t you see that?” Derek pleads. “We thought we were going to lose you, we didn’t know—“

“Isn’t that the problem here? You know, the other day Scott made a very good point. He had no idea what would happen by breaking the bond with me because he doesn’t have the same knowledge someone raised in a pack would. But _you_ should’ve known. You’re the born wolf, right? You have any idea the hell you put me through that night?”

Derek looks to the ground, guilt shadowing his face. _No_. The answer is clear as day on Derek’s face. Stiles nods, more to himself than anything, and he takes the remaining steps towards Derek until they’re practically chest-to-chest. He brings up a hand and places it over Derek’s chest just over his upper ribs, making the latter snap back to him in surprise.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs, before pressing his hand at Derek’s chest.

At first, nothing happens. But almost a split second later, Derek’s face contorts in sheer pain and he _roars_. Both his hands come up to grasp at Stiles’s arm to push him away but even all his werewolf strength isn’t enough to break the connection. Stiles can feel every inch of his magic pooling at his arm before flowing in powerful tides through his palm and unto Derek.

_“Stiles! Stop it!”_

_“Stop! You’re going to kill him!”_

_“Stiles, you need to stop!”_

_“He gets it, okay, we all do! He’s in pain, Stiles, you need to stop!”_

Hands begin to pull him away but they achieve nothing. There’s unyielding power coursing through his veins and every inch of Stiles feels alive. Derek’s knees buckle under him and he looks like he can’t breathe. His eyes stare directly into Stiles, flashing blue, pleading him to pull away, mouth parted to pull in as much air as possible and hands still tightly gripping Stiles’s wrist trying to push him away. As Derek falls to the floor, Stiles follows his motion, leaning over Derek’s catatonic body. Derek twists himself into a fetal position, taking quick, shallow breaths.

“St—Sti—pl—ease,” he chokes. “St—op.”

Stiles feels unbridled power; like he’s being taken over by an external entity. His vision begins to blur around the edges and he feels a type of exhaustion he’s never felt before. His body is wearing down, not equipped to deal with so much power at once but he can’t stop anymore. He can’t pull away, instead finds himself pressing his palm further into Derek’s chest, which makes Derek let out a deafening howl and it’s not until two strong arms wrap themselves around Stiles that he’s able to regain some control.

“Stiles, I need you to let go. Your eyes are flashing purple; I need you to control yourself and _let Derek go_ ,” a calm voice whispers into his ear. There’s a barest touch of lips at his ear as the person speaks and it takes Stiles a full minute to realize that it’s Ezra. As soon as the familiar scent of his friend hits him, Stiles pulls away from Derek, grasping at the floor, trying to regain his breath. Ezra’s arms are still locked around him and he buries his face into his arms, taking deep breaths.

In front of him, Derek gasps for breath, clutching at his chest. He curls himself further into a fetal position, body shaking all over. The second Stiles pulls away, all the wolves practically jump in on his catatonic body, leeching the pain away almost like it’s an automated response. Lydia kneels down by Derek’s head, lifting it just enough to place it on her lap. She cards through his hair in an effort to put him at ease but her eyes don’t leave Stiles.

Stiles blinks, looking at Ezra, who’s looking at him with a mess of pain, understanding, and hell, even a bit like he’s scared of what he’s just witnessed Stiles do. He withdraws away from Ezra, heart thundering in his chest. He looks at all of them slowly, one by one. None of them except for Lydia and Ezra would even look at him.

There’s a tense silence as they try to comprehend what just occurred and understandably so. Even Stiles had no idea what just transpired between he and Derek. All he can remember is the urge to cause pain and the next thing he knows, Ezra has his arms wrapped around him and Derek’s curled up in a fetal position, vibrating with pain.

Slowly, Derek pushes himself up, still taking labored breaths. His face is pale, like Scott and Boyd help him lean against the wall and he takes a second to catch his breath before cutting to Stiles. His face is pale, like he’s just broken a five-day fever, and he takes quick, shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks finally. He closes his eyes briefly before running his tongue to wet his parted dry lips. Allison gets him a glass of water and he devours the entire glass in seconds.

“But I had a father come to me asking if there was any way to protect his son, the only family he had left, and I told him what I knew. I get that I am the reason you left Beacon Hills but – Stiles,” Derek pauses to take a shuddering breath. He looks at the ground between them, pinched expression on his face, before looking back up at Stiles. “I _love_ you. If stripping you of the bond meant that you’d be alive then I was okay with that. I was okay with you hating me if it meant I didn’t have to see lowered six feet under.”

There’s another silence between them, just the hushed noises of chests rising and falling rapidly, trying to gather in as much air as possible.

“What would you have done?” Derek asks quietly. “If you saw my mangled body and I couldn’t heal from it and you knew of a way to make sure I’d never get hurt like that again, what would you have done? Wouldn’t you have done anything you can to protect me?”

It’s a long while before Stiles nods his head, tears pooling in his eyes. He looks down at his lap. “Yes,” he voices just as quietly as Derek.

“Then you can’t expect me to do anything different. I only did what I thought what was right.”

“I have to get out of here. I need to go see Deaton about what the hell just happened,” Stiles mumbles, getting up, using the wall as leverage. Ezra makes a move towards him but Stiles holds up a hand at him. “I need to deal with this myself for now.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Ezra murmurs but Stiles doesn’t listen.

He’s almost at the door when Derek asks, “Are we ever going to be okay?”

Stiles stills. He’s asked himself this same question everyday since he left Beacon Hills. For the first few years, the answer was a vehement and an easy _no_. But now, he’s not so sure. And even if he does forgive Derek, what would be the price? How long would it take? _What_ would it take? He’s never managed to make up his mind on this. He looks back and shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

Derek opens his mouth like he wants to say something but closes it, giving a resigned nod instead. There is so much to say and so much that still needs to be put out there in the open but today’s not the day. There’s too much bad blood between the two of them and it’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t fade away easy. It’s the kind that stays under their skin, burrowed deep within their selves, digging deeper and deeper with every passing day.

But maybe someday it might start fading away. Maybe someday he’ll look at Derek and won’t flinch back immediately. Maybe someday he’ll be able to hold a normal conversation with him. Maybe someday they’ll even be able to talk about baseball again.

Maybe someday.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly sorry for taking so long to update but I ran into several problems with the plot - for one, I realized that this was becoming way more about the internal conflict between Stiles and the pack and I totally let the Big Bad take the backseat to all that. So I had to rework several things. 
> 
> Secondly, thank you SO much to everyone who has been so patient with this story and with me. I really appreciate your kind words, every Kudos, and every comment you've left me. When I feel dry, re-reading all your lovely comments are one of the best ways for me to regain my inspiration to keep writing it more. 
> 
> Lastly, I made a photoset for this fic! Check it out [HERE](http://hales-republic.tumblr.com/post/117127178318/you-claim-to-hate-them-so-much-but-i-know-one). P.S. That smokin' hot suited-up specimen in the photoset? Yep, that's totally Ezra! ;)

Stiles is barely out the front door when he gets pulled back by Scott.

“What was that?”

“That was my losing my shit,” Stiles mutters, looking away, ashamed.

“That’s not good enough. You could have killed him, Stiles!” Scott snaps back. “I get that having to come back here and going through all this feels like someone ripped open old wounds but you can’t do that to other people. He made a mistake but you don’t get to torture him for it!”

Stiles gulps and nods his head in a jerky motion. Scott’s right. That was one of the first things his mom had ever taught him when Scott was getting bullied in elementary school and Stiles started defending him, fist for fist; two wrongs don’t make a right.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s ever been in Scott’s presence for longer than a few minutes and he realizes now how much older Scott really looks. And it’s not just in the way that his face has filled out, how defined his shoulders are, or how deep-set his eyes are. It’s in how he carries himself now.

Scott stands tall and proud, like an Alpha should. Gone is the fifteen-year old kid who was constantly on the defensive about becoming a werewolf. Now, it’s not Scott-the-angsty-teenager that Stiles sees before him, it’s Scott-the-Alpha.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing too.”

“I know I fucked up, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

The tone Scott uses gets to Stiles so he turns to Scott, defensive.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott sighs, shoulders falling forward. “It means that ever since you came here, you’ve treated us like shit. And that was understandable because we all expected that reaction. But today, you crossed a line and I’m not sure I believe that it was a mistake. Or that you don’t think Derek deserved it.”

Stiles gazes at him, unwavering. “You’re right. When I was doing it, I couldn’t think of anything else but making sure Derek was hurt. I wanted to make sure he understood what I felt. That being in love is not necessarily an excuse to do shitty things. Love is not an excuse for anything,” Stiles pauses, looking away. “But I also realize that I shouldn’t have done that. Something in me snapped and I just did it. I – I liked it but I know it was wrong. I – I don’t know, man. When my dad told me this was his doing and he only found out about it because of Derek, I snapped and I guess I just wanted him to feel the pain”

Scott doesn’t look like he understands but Stiles can see he’s trying to.

“Hurting someone is never the answer,” he says finally. “You hurt him today but just like love isn’t an excuse to hurt people, neither is anger. We’re all angry at something, Stiles. Isaac is angry at his dad, Derek’s angry at himself, I’m angry at my dad. But the answer to all of that isn’t ever going to be to hurt the people we’re angry at; that solves nothing in the long-term. Either we learn to live with what happened and move on or we stay in that constant state of hate and anger and let it consume us.”

Scott gives Stiles an intense stare before turning back to the house. He’s about to open the door but glances back one last time.

“You can decide how you want to live.”

 

The first lesson Deaton ever taught him was about control; control of his ability, of his surroundings, of his emotions. He’d seen too many powerful mages walk over into the darkness because of the lack of control and he was determined to make sure Stiles wouldn’t follow in their footsteps; that Stiles wouldn’t be the next Julia Buccari.

Unfortunately, even with all the training he’s done with magic, Stiles has no idea what just transpired between him and Derek. More importantly, he has no idea how he managed to do something like that. So naturally, the very first thing Stiles does after his talk with Scott is drive straight over to Deaton’s.

Stiles grips the steering wheel as tight as he can because they begin to shake every time he lets go. Ever since he let go of Derek, there’s been a buzz of sorts in the back of his head that’s only gotten louder in the time it took him to drive away from the Hale house and to Deaton’s.

Deaton would no doubt lecture him, would peer at him with the very familiar _how could you be so stupid_ stare and Stiles just isn’t in the mood for that right now. So it’s not a surprise that all Stiles manages to do is drive in the parking lot, put his car in park, and stare at the building for all of thirty seconds before putting his car in reverse and driving out back to his house.

He throws his keys in the general direction of the coffee table, sinking into the familiar musty couch almost as soon as he gets into his house. He’s brimming with pent up energy, eager to spill out of his body, but he forces himself to sit still. Control. That’s what he needs the most after all.

Stiles stares ahead at the empty room, fingers still shaking and heartbeat still erratic, and then at the blank television in front of him. Some of his earliest memories in this room are those of his mom and dad standing on two opposite ends, each calling out to him as he struggled to take his first steps. They’re hazy memories, his mom’s face blurring at the edges but against all that haze, it’s his mom’s eyes and bright smile that shine clear as day in his mind. It’d been a fun game; both of them clapping and cajoling little baby Stiles to get up and walk towards them with bright smiles and twinkling eyes.

Now when he looks around the room, there’s nothing but emptiness. No laughter, no larger-than-life smiles, no clapping, no life. There’s nothing left, not in this house or his heart, he realizes with a jarring thought. It’s an empty shell, just waiting to be torn down at any given moment.

For a long time, Stiles had thought he’d come back to Beacon Hills at some point for one reason or another and maybe he’d see Scott, Derek, Lydia, and maybe he’d get some closure. Maybe he’d stick around long enough to get his answers and then he’d be on his way back to New York. Maybe then, he’d stop walking with one eye constantly over the shoulder every time he came across a pretty redhead or saw someone with a muscular built and a constant five o’clock shadow.

 _That’s how it’s supposed to be_ , he thinks. He’s supposed to make sure his dad is alright and taking tare of himself (maybe try one more time to convince him to move to New York with him), get his closure from his ghosts, and then leave again.

But today, it’s painful to admit that he’s come back to Beacon Hills, he’s seen Scott, Derek, and Lydia, he’s gotten his answers and yet, he’s nowhere close to the closure he desperately wants.

So he sits there on the couch and tries to make sense of it all; tries to make sense of what he’s done to Derek, to the pack, and what he has to do now. And all he can think of is how much he wishes he could disappear. Just _poof!_ And Stiles is gone, nowhere to be seen or heard from again.

He could ask for bigger things right? Like how Scott had never got bit in the first place? Or how his mother shouldn’t have died? Or how he and Derek shouldn’t have crossed paths in the first place?

He sits there, motionless, and it’s with a stuttering realization that Stiles finally admits he has no idea what to do anymore. He doesn’t know what’s plaguing Beacon Hills, doesn’t know how to make his dad better, doesn’t know how he could lose his control enough to practically torture someone he’s loved for what feels like a lifetime. All he knows is that he felt a kind of power over Derek that he’s ached of. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, so much so that he immediately runs to the downstairs bathroom and throws up.

The Nogitsune. That’s what it reminds him of. The pleasure and contentment he felt when the Nogitsune had taken him over, how he’d reveled in the pain he’d brought on Scott that rainy night. Of how he’d fed from the chaos and strife and darkness.

He wants to disappear, he thinks as he collapses against the bathroom wall, breathing heavy. Derek may have wronged him but he didn’t deserve what Stiles had just done. Nobody did.

 

Even when he’s thrown up what little he had in his stomach and all that’s left is an acrid taste in his mouth, he remains seated on the floor, exhausted. Every part of his body is just _spent_ ; his legs feel like jelly, unable to hold up his weight, his head feels like he just got ran over with a freight train, and every single muscle in his body feels sore. He tries to muster up all the strength he has in getting up but he barely manages to get up before he collapses to the floor once again.

 _Well, it’s okay_ , he thinks. Maybe he’ll just sit there for the time being then, get to know the floor a little better. It’s a good floor, right? Sturdy, kind of chilly, and the tiles are kind of faded but it only adds to the vintage look. Yeah, it’s a pretty good floor so maybe he’ll just hang out there for a while.

“Fuck,” he mutters, carding through his hair before feeling down his pants for his phone, finding it in his jacket pocket. He squints at the screen, noting five calls and sixteen messages from Ezra, a couple of calls from Lydia, and…an unusual number of missed calls from Melissa. “For fuck’s sake.”

He notices the voicemail button blinking so he calls it in, punches his access code, and presses the phone against his ear. It’s only a short while before he hears Melissa’s voice, laced with concern. “ _Stiles, you need to get to the hospital right now. Someone’s waiting for you and it’s – just – get here soon, okay?_ ”

Stiles groans, contemplates dropping his phone into the toilet, but ultimately decides that would accomplish all of nothing. He’s not ready to see his dad. It’s selfish and completely against everything he’s always held himself to be but after the bomb that his dad dropped on him, he shouldn’t be blamed if he wants to stay clear of the hospital for a while, right?

But clearly, someone out there has other plans. He sighs, gives himself thirty seconds before collecting every bit of energy he has and getting up.

 

“Hi, I’m looking for Melissa?” Stiles asks the nurse currently working at the Nurse’s Station. She glances at him quickly and nods, holding up a finger at him. He gives her a small smile, and turns around, leaning against the counter as he takes in the hustle and bustle of the floor. There’s something off about all this but he can’t quite put a finger on it. There’s no weird smell, no weird presence but the hair on the back of his neck is erect and everything in his body is screaming red.

“Stiles!” He hears from behind him and he straightens, noting the stiffness of Melissa’s shoulders as she comes to a stop beside him. She immediately pulls him for a tight hug, turning her head just a fraction towards his ear and whispers, “There’s someone here to see you and he’s waiting in your dad’s room.”

She pulls back and before he can even respond to her, she’s already nudging him in the direction of his dad’s room so he gives her a reassuring squeeze on her arm before he walks to his dad’s room. The closer he gets, the greater he begins to feel a weird itch under his skin, like there’s something there that he _shouldn’t_ be messing with but has to.

He opens the door with a wary look and the second the door opens, the onslaught of magic he feels is so overwhelming that he almost collapses to the floor. Stiles clutches at the doorknob tightly, holding on to it as if it were an anchor, and takes a deep breath. The magic under his skin begins to thrum, almost painfully at first but then it calms into an ebbing _twang_. It’s revitalizing, how he feels. He’s never felt so alive before, so free, so bridled with energy. His head feels like it’s about to explode; it’s almost like his entire being just got a mega recharge of pure, raw energy.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a silken voice asks, breaking his reverie, bringing him back into focus at the third presence in the room. It’s that of a man but Stiles doesn’t recognize him. He’s just a tad taller than Stiles, fair-skinned and eyes so pale they practically glint under the lights. By any definition, he looks perfectly ordinary but the closer Stiles looks, the more he appears anything but.

The man turns around, giving Stiles a slight smile before motioning him into the room. “Oh come in, dear boy. You don’t want to let all this flow outside, do you?”

“Who the hell are you?” Stiles asks instead, clearing his throat when his voice comes out a bit hoarse. The man merely gives him a smile, like he’s got all the time in the world. “What do you want from my dad? Actually, how’d you even get into this room?”

“I hear you’ve travelled all the way from New York for your dad,” the man says, ignoring his questions.

“He’s my dad,” Stiles bites out, like it’s pretty obvious.

“Even after what he did? My, my, aren’t you the most forgiving,” he purrs and it immediately raises Stiles’s hackles on how similar this man’s mannerisms are to that of Peter. The same sly arrogance paired with a strong sense of entitlement exuded by the upturn of his nose and the mischief in his eyes.

“ _Who are you_?”

The man merely smiles at Stiles before motioning to his dad.

“You know, I must ask for forgiveness for him. It was never my intention for _him_ to get caught in this. I was aiming for one of your pack, you see, but well – your dad came sniffing around after a mistake I made and I had to make the best of a bad situation.”

Stiles glares at him, moving to the other side of his dad’s bed but it makes no difference to the man. The small smile stays painted on his face.

“My name is Alberich,” he says.

“I’ve never heard of you,” Stiles mentions.

“Oh you wouldn’t have,” he smirks, glancing down at his dad and then back at Stiles. “But I have heard of you, my dear Stiles. Peter Hale was especially informative. Told me stories and stories of the boy who ran with wolves, the boy who carried nothing but a baseball bat and yet showed more potential than Peter had seen in a long time.”

“I always knew I was the fucking Jennifer Lawrence of the supernatural world. Everyone wants me,” Stiles mutters. Then it clicks, and his eyes fly open. “Peter told you about me?”

After all this time, Stiles doesn’t know what’s more startling. That Peter’s managed to sell them out once again or the fact that Stiles is no longer surprised when it happens.

The man – Alberich – tuts playfully, glancing back at Stiles’s father, if nothing else than to just make sure the man was still unconscious, before turning to Stiles. His cold eyes flash a luminescent purple at Stiles and Stiles can feel his own eyes flashing back in response. He smirks.

“You’d be surprised at how talkative werewolves can get with just the right blend of wolfsbane and belladonna. But that’s for another day, hm?” he sighs dramatically.

“Do you know my favorite thing about Beacon Hills, Stiles?” When Stiles says nothing, he continues. “The land it stands on. The one thing that the Hales did right back when they first played a hand in founding the city was choosing the right place – choosing the right _land_. Of course, the Nemeton was much pure back then and perhaps that’s what made the land so pure and…attractive in turn. Nonetheless, the land bonded with them quite easily. Generations of Hales commanded over the land, cared for it, made it more powerful than it could be and in turn, it cared for them, it gave them shelter and fueled their power with its own.

“Therefore, naturally, when they died in that god-awful fire, so did the land. It became bitter, almost like it was infected. It easily rejected Peter as the Alpha – for good reason, as I’m sure you’d agree – and so, he became the monster who couldn’t be stopped. Of course, Derek was a good Alpha but he wasn’t just right fit. And then you and Scott came along. Scott McCall, the True Alpha, and Stiles Stilinski, a spark with more power than most. You two – you built a pack, you defended the land, you sacrificed yourself to protect the land – in short, you began to _heal_ it. So it fed you the power. You healed it and it reciprocated by healing _you_.

“And then,” Alberich gasps theatrically, looking at Stiles with a mock surprise look. “You got cheated after that harpy attack. You broke your ties and left. Can you guess what happened next?” he asks, as if talking to a kindergartner. It makes Stiles furious.

“No,” Stiles snarls quietly.

“All hell broke lose! The land fizzled with raw, unbounded energy to the point that it had no idea where to direct it all but good thing I was able to step in, of course,” he says slyly, a maddening glint in his pale blue eyes. “Slowly, over the course of eight years, I honed the power, slipping in bits of mine at _just_ the right place and _just_ the right time. It took much longer than I had anticipated – eight years is a very long time and I had no idea if you were ever planning on returning but I couldn’t just _not_ take over. There was simply too much power for a broken pack to handle.”

“So it began to use you as a channel,” Stiles murmurs, finally understanding. Alberich gives him victorious smile.

“That’s correct,” he practically sings. He moves closer to Stiles’s dad, making Stiles immediately mirror his actions, which only earns him another smirk.

“So why reveal yourself now? All this time we had no idea who or what was causing all this. What’s the point of making yourself known now?” Stiles asks.

“Before I could get the complete power I want – that I _deserve_ – _you_ had to come back. To complete the cycle, you see.”

“Because on some fundamental level, it’s still the Hale land and I’m the only other mage who’s tied to a Hale wolf – to _Derek_ ,” Stiles whispers. He looks up at Alberich, wild-eyed. “You needed me to bond with the pack again – with Derek again – to clean the black spots of the tainted magic.”

“Correct! It’s just so refreshing to finally be able to talk to someone with brains,” Alberich says, clapping delightedly. “And there was only one real way to draw you back.”

They both look at the Sheriff and for the first time, Stiles notices the faint glow emanating from his father. It’s subtle but definitely present.

“Why is he glowing?”

“Ah,” Alberich claps again. “Just a show of good faith. You give me what I want and your father gets to live. I’ll make sure he heals to his full health, a fixed heart and everything!”

“But I die,” Stiles replies.

“Well, obviously, but you’re going to die anyway so the least you can do is die with the peace of mind that you managed to save your father.” Alberich rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’m not a complete monster, Stiles.”

Stiles grits his teeth, hands clasped together so tightly that his fingertips were turning white.

“And what’s the guarantee? How do I know you won’t let him die?”

Alberich shrugs carelessly, facing Stiles. “You don’t really. Nothing is guaranteed after all. But here are your choices. Give me what I want and there’s a chance he lives. Try anything to get in my way and you’ll both die. I think the answer’s obvious, don’t you?”

He’s gone before Stiles can even think to reply, lights flickering wildly in his wake. He whirls around the room, trying to make sense of how a man can just disappear but when there’s no other movement but when the lights settle, Stiles feels the tug in his heart disappear. He looks at his dad, dropping into the seat by the bed, exhausted.

The faint glow has disappeared but when Stiles touches his dad’s forehead, he feels a gentle response. He can feel his magic running down his hand, through his fingertips, and onto his dad’s forehead and he can _feel_ it working. The resistance he felt when he first tried to heal his dad was slowly fading; it won’t ever fade completely, Stiles surmises, not without Alberich dropping the barrier to the connection entirely but maybe there was something that he could do.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos fuel me. Thank you so much for sticking with me and with this story that seems like it's eternally a work in progress. The end is near though - only three more chapters to go!

“Who is he?” Stiles asks, pacing back and forth, fingers wringing together. He had driven back to Derek’s house and upon seeing Peter, immediately flung a fireball at him. Stiles was not even a little bit ashamed; at least he didn’t use a Molotov cocktail. Unfortunately, that meant they had to take Peter to Deaton’s office to help magic-induced burn though Stiles was quite content in just letting him suffer.

Deaton sighs, looking up from where he was applying a muddy brown paste on a particularly nasty burn on Peter’s shoulder. Derek makes no move to help Peter from where he stands behind him.

“He’s one of the most powerful mages I’ve known,” he replies quietly before focusing his attention back on Peter. The werewolf winces as Deaton applies more of the paste, rubbing it until it begins to dissipate into his skin.

“And the reason you never mentioned him was?” Stiles bites out, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists at a shoddy attempt to keep calm.

“Talia assured me he’d been taken care of,” Deaton answers calmly. He glances at Stiles, cocking a brow. “And Talia wasn’t always known to be a forgiving Alpha.”

“Quite the fierce wolf, my sister,” Peter mutters. He glares at Stiles, motioning to the slowly reddening second-degree burn on his shoulder. “Was this really necessary?”

“Are you really necessary?” Stiles retorts, not at all ashamed. Behind Peter, Derek smirks.

“You realize that I didn’t exactly give out your secrets over a friendly coffee date, right?” Peter snarls. “I was drugged. With a concoction of these two herbs known as wolfsbane and belladonna – maybe you came across them in your little magic textbooks?”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“He _was_ drugged, Stiles,” Deaton interjects. “I’d treated him for that and you know the right mixture involving those two drugs can prove to be quite lethal.”

It is true. In fact, one of the first healing spells Deaton had taught Stiles was for treating against a wolfsbane-belladonna mix. After straight wolfsbane, this was the most lethal because it tended to cause realistic hallucinations in werewolves with the intent to drive them to become feral.

“I apologize,” Stiles says stiffly. “Can we get back to who he is?”

“He’s powerful, for one, and for another, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants,” Deaton says. “He has tried to do what he’s doing now back before you were even worn and when I was still an emissary-in-training.”

“You said my mom told you she’d taken care of it before. How did she do that?” Derek asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“Talia and Seth had worked out a ritual,” Peter begins but is interrupted by Scott.

“Who’s Seth?”

“My dad,” Derek replies at the same time that Stiles says, “Derek’s dad.” Peter rolls his eyes at the obvious attempt of Derek and Stiles not trying to look at each other before continuing.

“Like I was saying, they had a ritual. Seth was our mage and with my dear sister being the Alpha, it was quite easy for them to channel her powers through our land to draw up a barrier.”

“A barrier?” Stiles asks, inching forward.

Peter hums, as the last of the burn finishes healing. He twists his shoulders back and forth before slipping his shirt back on.

“Yes, from my understanding, they had constructed a barrier all around Beacon Hills that protected the town from unwelcome magic. It was quite sophisticated, to be honest, but it did rely heavily on the Nemeton and Talia’s intent to protect this land. Magic is quite emotional, as you already know.”

“So it was like a ward?” Derek surmises. Peter nods.

“Exactly like a ward.”

“So what happened to it?” Stiles questions, brows furrowing in confusion. “If they made it, it should have lasted.”

“It should have but between all the stress put on the Nemeton – you know those sacrifices, the Nogitsune, and of course, the rest of the supernatural drama – the ward began to wear down,” Peter counters easily. “I’m surprised you people didn’t notice.”

“And you didn’t think to tell anybody?” Derek glares but Peter merely scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“What good was that going to do? By the time there _was_ a noticeable difference, Boy Wonder here was already in New York.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Peter, ready to fire back but he’s interrupted before he can say anything.

“Would Stiles be able to do it?” Scott cuts in and glances over at Stiles, who straightens at the attention.

“Probably. He’s already proven himself to be quite the mage, hasn’t he? That being said, it is quite painful and does take a fair bit of preparation. Especially now that we’re having to rebuild the entire ward.”

Stiles bites on his thumb, looking between Peter and Derek.

“Does it need Derek or Scott?” he asks finally, sneaking a look at the wolves in question. “Talia was the Alpha but she was also a Hale and if this land is the Hale land, how likely is it that the ritual will even work with Scott?”

“Ten points for Gryffindor!” Peter claps mockingly. At Derek’s growl, he clarifies, “Oh that’s a house in the magical land of Harry Potter. It was during your time, Derek. You should be well familiar with it.”

This time Scott growls, narrowing his eyes at Peter, who merely huffs.

“I suspect you’d need to consult Seth’s old journals,” Deaton interrupts, before things get messy considering the twin murderous looks Derek and Scott direct towards Peter. “But it needs to happen by tomorrow, during the peak of The Wolf Moon.”

“Where are they?”

“Our vault under the school,” Derek answers, finally tearing his attention away from Peter. Stiles nods. “We can get them tonight.”

“The pack and I will be back at the house trying to figure out if there’s anything we can do in the mean time,” Scott offers.

“Is there no way for me to just construct the wards on my own?” Stiles asks.

“Not particularly. As powerful as you are, you need someone to anchor you while you perform the ritual. It uses up a lot of power from you, from the Nemeton, and I’m just going out on a limb here but I’m guessing that you’d like to be alive at the end of all this?” Peter snarks, completely ignoring the withering glower Stiles shoots him.

Deaton sighs again, this time like he’s the adult babysitting four toddlers who are determined to yank at each other’s pigtails all day.

Stiles leans against the wall and takes a slow breath, the conversations around him falling to a faint echo. Butterflies begin to pool in his stomach and the feeling of nervousness slowly takes over. There’s a lot at stake here. Like Peter had pointed out, magic is emotional and if he has to perform the ritual with Derek – well, there really was no way to guarantee it’d work. He still doesn’t trust Derek like he should and if they didn’t get their shit together, there was no way of this ritual working. He nods to himself imperceptibly, as if readying himself for the one conversation he’d been avoiding all this time.

He looks up, noting for the first time how worn out Derek actually looks. Stiles had spent a lot of time avoiding Derek so he’s never had to actually notice how this was affecting Derek. His shoulders are practically hunched down, lines of tension bearing their full weight on them, and his face looks noticeably smaller than what Stiles remembers. There are dark circles under his eyes from nights of lost sleep and the worn-down look from his eyes seemed to broadcast that message fairly well. Though his beard remains impeccably trimmed, Stiles can see the pronounced hollowness in Derek’s face, as though he’d decided to skip meals in lieu of the newest threat.

And that’s something Stiles is familiar with – Derek’s completely and utterly ridiculous habit of letting himself go in face of a new threat to Beacon Hills; forgetting to eat, forgetting to sleep, to relax, to recuperate his spent energy because he was constantly running around the perimeter of his territory to ensure its safety. And Stiles has no doubt in his mind that this is exactly what Derek has been doing the entire time Stiles has been back.

“Stiles?”

Stiles jerks his head towards Scott, only then realizing that Scott, Derek, Peter, and Deaton were looking back at him, waiting for something.

“Sorry, what? I missed it,” he answers, shaking his head.

“I suggested that maybe you and Derek should head to the Hale vault after this while Peter and Scott head back and start coming up with a tactical plan,” Deaton repeats patiently.

The butterflies make his stomach churn in nervousness at the thought of spending time alone with Derek. He sneaks a glance at Derek, just to see his reaction, but Derek is particularly skilled in the art of the poker face. His face gives nothing away but if Stiles had to guess, he wouldn’t doubt for a second that this plan is not something Derek’s very comfortable with.

He almost says no because of that reason alone but then realizes that either he goes with Derek to the vault or with Peter – and well, his answer becomes easy once that realization hits.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Stiles coughs. If he strains his eyes, he thinks he can see just the slightest sense of relaxation in Derek’s shoulders but he doesn’t comment on it. Derek doesn’t say anything but nod in return.

“Okay, so let’s try to meet up in about an hour or so?” Scott confirms on his way out.

“Actually, is it okay if I speak to Deaton about something quickly?” Stiles asks, as they begin to head out. “Do you mind waiting for me, Derek?”

“I’ll wait by your car,” Derek replies, and pauses before he adds, “Don’t worry, I won’t listen.”

Stiles raises a brow at him. “I didn’t think you would.”

Peter rolls his eyes, scoffing as he leaves behind Derek, muttering something about people acting like toddlers. When the door shuts behind Peter, Stiles turns to Deaton who looks back at him like he knows exactly what Stiles is about to say.

“Do you know what happened?” he asks simply, only because they both know what he’s talking about.

“I do,” Deaton nods, motions to the examination table. Stiles hops on, familiar with what’s about to come next, slipping his shirt off in the process. Deaton mutters a few words under his breath, his hands hovering directly over where Stiles’s heart. It takes only a second but Stiles begins to feel a cooling sensation in his heart, slowly spreading through the organ until it felt like it’s about to burst.

Stiles takes in a deep breath, reveling in how calm and relaxed he feels. This spell produced physiological responses similar to that of smoking weed; the goal of the spell was to relax the mage enough to let the marks on their bodies show. Again, it only takes a brief moment before Stiles can feel his marks beginning to glow all over his chest.

When his very first mark had begun to take shape on Stiles’s body, it had started at his heart, swirling in thick navy lines as it circled its way around his right pec and over his right shoulder, down his arm. It’d glowed a shimmery, luminescent blue for all of ten seconds before it faded away, leaving his skin completely unmarked. Over time, more thick lines had appeared, seemingly at random times, each one originating just over his heart and circling out to the rest of his upper body.

This time though, the marks are different. They run much thinner now and instead of glowing an iridescent blue, they glow deep red.

Deaton frowns.

“That’s not normal, is it?” Stiles asks. He already knows the answer to his question but Deaton gives a slow nod nonetheless. “What does it mean?”

“It means that you have to be careful. What you did to Derek borrowed heavily from inorganic magic. It came from a dark, brittle place in your heart,” Deaton begins slowly. He draws his hands away from Stiles and the marks disappear. “We all possess some level of darkness – that is fundamental human nature. A person is _rarely_ implicitly good. What differs is a person’s resolve to seal away their darkness – or rather, the _potential_ of their darkness – by steadily ignoring that side of their nature and focusing on doing good in the world.

“Those who give into their darkness do terrible things, often without much thought. So in objecting Derek to your pain, you gave into your darkness and it seeped out in a powerful manner.”

Stiles looks down because he doesn’t know what to say. He fidgets with his fingers, tightly wringing them together, keeping his attention focused on the action.

“So what happens now?”

Dread pools inside him, worming its way through his heart.

“Now, we wait and see. Your marks altering their appearance means that it recognized your inorganic magic and as a result, your ability to perform certain spells will suffer.”

“Will it affect my ability to perform the ritual?”

It’s the only thing he can think about because truth be told, right now that’s the only thing that matters. But from the way Deaton looks at him, Stiles knows he has no answers. So he nods and leaves.

 

By the time Stiles leaves the office, Derek and his Jeep were the only presence in the parking lot. Derek straightens when he sees Stiles approach the car but says nothing, just slides into the passenger seat.

The ride is painfully awkward. Although the school isn’t more than a twenty-minute drive from Deaton’s office, Stiles feels like they’ve been on the road for hours. Beside him, Derek is quiet, doing nothing but staring out the window, watching lines of trees fly by. The sky above begins to darken and the temperature drops, cooling the town as night approaches. It doesn’t surprise him that Derek has yet to say anything; Stiles himself is still reeling from what he’d done to Derek.

He’d crossed a line and he’s well-aware of that. Regardless of what had happened between them, Stiles had pretty much tortured Derek and what’s worse is that he’d enjoyed it. How is he any different from Kate Argent now? From Gerard? The thought of it curdles in his mind and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel in response. Turns out, the answer is not much. He’s not much different from Kate or Gerard.

“How many journals are there?” Stiles asks finally, if only because his stomach is so knotted with nervousness and guilt that he can’t take another moment of awkward silence. He keeps his eyes on the road but he can feel Derek’s attention snap to him.

Derek doesn’t say anything – probably still shocked that Stiles had actually voluntarily spoken to him, lips curling into a tentative smile. Stiles looks at him briefly, eyebrows raised, waiting for the answer.

“Not sure,” he coughs. “Maybe five or six?”

Stiles groans, already dreading the reading he’d have to do. But Derek smirks instead, shaking his head minutely, turning his attention to the blurs of dark green out the window.

“No doubt they’re all riddled with useless anecdotes and vague clues, right?”

“Actually, they’re pretty well-organized considering how hard it is to document that type of magic,” Derek supplies.

“I refuse to believe that. I remember the books Deaton had me read – they were vicious,” Stiles grouses. When Derek snorts, Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Literally vicious. One of them tried to gnaw on my fingers!”

“You mean like _The Monster Book of Monsters_?” Derek asks sardonically, rolling his eyes. Stiles gapes at him openly, brain short-circuiting at the thought of Derek Hale making a _Harry Potter reference_.

“You’ve read Harry Potter?” Stiles stammers. At the way Derek raises his brow at him, it makes him wonder what else he’s missed in the eight years. When they were together, Stiles had tried for months to get Derek to read the series but Derek had rolled his eyes every time, completely dismissive of the idea.

“I used to babysit and the kids would only go to sleep if I read them Harry Potter,” he admits finally.

“You used to babysit. You – _you_ used to babysit.”

Derek huffs. “Not that hard to believe people would trust me with their kid.”

“Maybe so, but it _is_ hard to believe you’d want to go anywhere near ten feet of a hyperactive, spazzy kid,” Stiles points out.

“I was around you all the time. Figured that trained me well for anything after that,” Derek smirks. Stiles attempts to growl at Derek but from the way his smirk just widens, he figures he hasn’t gotten much better at the whole growling thing even after eight years. Derek looks away after a beat, schooling his features back into a blank state, and another silence falls between them.

“I needed something to do,” Derek offers quietly just as Stiles pulls into the school parking lot. He turns to Derek, moving only to park the car, but Derek barely even registers the motion.

Derek clears his throat, fingers fidgeting in his lap like he’s admitting, out loud for the first time, a precious secret he’s kept for himself. He looks down at his fingers, shoulders practically hunching in on themselves in an attempt to make himself look small and vulnerable, no easy feat considering the fact that he’s a 180lb werewolf.

“After everything happened,” he clarifies, voice low. “And kids – they were a good distraction. For the few hours that I babysat, it felt like there weren’t any other wolves or hunters or dragons waiting for us out there. The biggest problem I had to worry about was them lying about their bedtime or staying up under their blankets to play games when they’re supposed to be sleeping.

“After you left, it was a mess. _We_ were a mess. We didn’t know what to do – we all just fell apart and it took Scott a long time to stitch us back together because I think we all just got so comfortable with you always there that when you weren’t, we didn’t know what to do anymore. _I_ didn’t know what to do anymore and I needed a distraction from all that.”

It feels like someone took a hammer and hit Stiles with it right in his core. His eyes begin to water slightly but he shuts them forcefully in a feeble attempt to stop any actual tears. Taking a deep breath, he swallows the lump in his throat, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He hears a soft, crackling sound and he opens his eyes to see tiny golden sparks shooting off his fingertips like they were sparklers.

If Derek notices, he doesn’t say a word. For a moment, the only sounds that fill the Jeep are those of them breathing slowly. Just deep breaths in and out because neither of them are ready for anything more than that.

“We should get going,” Stiles murmurs, and it’s that feeling of just not wanting to deal with any of all of this that spurs him into motion. He doesn’t wait for Derek’s reaction before hopping out of the car, already walking towards the front of the school where the entrance to the Hale vault stands.

They open the Hale vault and it occurs to Stiles how many battles and attacks have been centered around the high school; the Kanima attack, the hallucination and subsequent fight with the Nogitsune, Peter’s attacks, and countless others. It’s unbelievable how the high school is still standing despite everything it’s seen.

The vault is dark, scattered with pearly white spider webs hanging in the corners, and a cool draft enveloping them as they enter. Stiles has only ever been inside the vault once – back when Derek had brought him and Scott to show him some of the old treaties and alliances Talia had signed with the other Californian packs.

Stiles lingers back, looking at the various personal effects of the Hales on the shelves while Derek opens the smaller safe and it’s only a few minutes later that Stiles hears the safe door shut and Derek’s looking at him expectantly, holding five worn, leather-covered journals.

“We can take them with us,” Derek says, already walking up the stairs. Stiles nods, spares one last glance at the dark room before following him outside.

 

When they get back to the house, the rest of the pack is already there along with Ezra, who’s hunched over the dining table, tapping at something with a single finger. Beside him, Scott nods and circles that area. They look up when he and Derek enter the room and as they get closer, Stiles recognizes the old copy of the map of Beacon Hills spread out in front of him. The edges are darkened and worn-out, slight tears at the corners from being used on numerous occasions.

“Well, now that the Chosen One is here, can we get started?” Peter smiles, slinking forward towards the table.

“Tread carefully, Peter. My hand might just slip and you might just find it hard to breathe,” Stiles mutters immediately, ignoring the sneer the older werewolf shoots him. Lydia smiles behind Peter.

“What do we have so far?” Stiles asks, because they have to more important stuff to worry about than snarking Peter.

Ezra nods to the map. “We have to get to the Nemeton but we need to figure out how to surround the area and seal it off from the rest of Beacon Hills.”

“We can set up a ward all around us for that, right?” Lydia pipes. She draws out a circle on the map with her finger. “Right here. Jackson and I can do that tonight easily.”

“He may anticipate that and ambush you,” Scott murmurs but Lydia nods over to where Jackson stands, shoulders squaring and a determined glint in his eyes.

“That’s why she has me,” Jackson says firmly. “He’s not laying a hand on her with me around.” It’s addressed to Scott but he looks at Lydia with an unwavering intensity that doesn’t surprise Stiles in the slightest. From the way she gives him a small smile, it doesn't seem like she’s all that surprised either.

Stiles had wondered for a long time how she and Jackson would make out in the future after he’d been shipped off to London but he’d come back for college the second he could and they’d been inseparable since. The popular girl and the high school lacrosse captain falling in love was an old cliché but Jackson balances Lydia out in ways that Stiles never could. She holds him tightly in place, anchoring him, giving him a safe harbor against all his doubts and fears and he looks at her like she’s his lighthouse.

“Okay, fine,” Scott nods reluctantly. “Do you need anything from us?”

“Just a couple of things from Deaton,” Lydia mutters. She and Jackson collect their things from the room and take off.

“What do you want us to do?” Isaac asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“One of you needs to keep an eye on the Sheriff,” Derek says, glancing at Stiles. “We need to make sure he stays at the hospital. Actually, better do it in pairs – we need to protect each other.”

“Boyd and I can take care of that,” Erica pipes. Derek nods; he’d expected as much. Besides, they make a good team. Erica flops over to Stiles and gives him a tight hug. He’s surprised for all of five seconds before he wraps his arms around her and he can just feel the waves of relief from her. “He won’t get hurt, I promise,” she whispers in his ear before she and Boyd leave.

“What else needs to be done?” Allison asks.

“Get in touch with your dad, see if there’s anything in the Argent documents about how to deal with Alberich,” Stiles says.

“Isaac can help you with that, right?” Isaac nods, already packing up the rest of his stuff, shoving his phone and wallet in his jeans.

“Anything else we need to take care of?” Stiles asks, just as the door shuts behind Allison and Isaac.

“I’d suggest getting started on your readings,” Peter pipes, waving his hand towards the pile of journals on the table.

“I can help with that if you want,” Scott says, already grabbing a seat by the kitchen counter and flipping open the first journal.

“We can all help with that, if that’s okay with Derek,” Ezra murmurs. For his part, Derek looks surprised that Ezra even asked permission but he nods slowly nonetheless.

“Yeah,” he coughs. “It’s – I mean – yeah. Thanks for asking.”

Derek looks torn about his decision but Stiles knows he’s clearly aware that they need all the help he can get. Even when Derek took Stiles to the vault for the first time, they were both aware of what a monumental step it was for Derek; letting someone outside his family into a place where all his family’s secrets, their personal journals and albums, were kept. Even Scott hadn’t been inside the vault. In fact, nobody other than Derek, Stiles, and Peter even knew where the vault is.

They all take a journal out of the pile, grab a seat, and begin to read quietly. The journals, written immaculately by Derek’s father, are some of the most well organized books Stiles has ever seen. Two of the five journals held detailed descriptions of herbs that are primarily used in magic and included everything from a physical description of each herb to its uses in specific rituals and potions. Another journal was more of a bestiary, akin to the one Chris Argents had but far more detailed. The last two journals were grimoires, pages and pages filled with spells, rituals, invocations that ever existed. Stiles was impressed; there were things in his journal that even Deaton’s books didn’t have any information on.

The journal he grabs is one of the grimoires but one that talks about the Hale land and its magic specifically. As he begins to read, Stiles can feel himself invading the most private parts of Derek’s family – there are stories about Derek’s grandparents, his sisters, even Talia. Seth Hale had understood what it meant when magic was tied to one’s emotions so the journal was filled with small bits of personal memories and emotions he’d felt when doing each spell. It even talked about the protection ritual Seth and Talia had performed when Derek, Laura, and Cora were born, detailing exactly how happy and elated they’d felt, how fiercely they’d believed in the spell they cast each time a Hale child was born, how much they loved each baby.

Stiles treats the journal like he’s touching the most fragile object in the world that would tear apart the second he applied much force to it. He sneaks a glance towards Peter and Derek, both of whom look utterly lost in what they’re reading. Even Peter’s face holds a kind of softness that Stiles had never seen before and he doesn’t doubt for one second that Peter legitimately thought he was doing the right thing when he tried to exact his revenge on those who killed his family. Looking at Peter now, it’s very apparent how much he truly loved his family and how much it tore him apart to lose them all in one night. It doesn’t justify his actions, of course, but Stiles can understand what drove Peter to do what he did.

“I think I found something,” Scott says, after a few of hours. He had the second grimoire and he slides the open book towards Stiles, tapping at the bottom of the right page.

_Of all the qualities a mage may possess, there is one that is incredibly rare – not because the mage that possesses it is extremely powerful but because it only presents in a mage willing to die for those he or she is bonded to. The mage with this ability is unselfish, untainted by the lure of darkness, unshaken from the lust of acquiring even more power. This mage exists to ensure the survival of his or her pack above all else – even at the expense of their life._

_The very first mage that bonded with our pack had this ability – Emery Hale put her pack above her own life and for her effort, the Nemeton and the Hale lands responded in kind. The land showered her with magic, making her one of the most powerful mages in the country, and the Nemeton, for all her efforts in maintaining a strict balance, kept the Hale land healthy and pure and flush with the most beautiful of energies._

_This quality is not so easily found in a mage for the simple reason that mages are human – and as loyal as many humans may be, they are first concerned with their own survival. Our pack has had very few of these special mages; I am not one of those. As powerful as I am, I am not the mage the Hale land will truly ever bond to – that gift, I most sincerely believe, is being saved for the one who will come after me. He has been chosen by our land to be protector for he will step into this life not by birth, but by choice. And protect he shall – I am sure of it_.

“He knew,” Stiles whispers, still reeling from what they’d all read. “He knew!”

“Of course he knew,” Peter scoffs. “Even I knew the second I laid my eyes on you. Why do you think I wanted to for my pack, Stiles?”

Derek and Scott simultaneously growl at that but Peter barely bats an eye.

“Did you know?” Stiles asks Derek, opting to generally just ignore Peter’s presence now.

“I would have told you,” he replies, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand, so what if he knew about you?” Scott asks.

“It means that he knew that Stiles needed to be protected until it was his time,” Peter answers. “Seth firmly believed Stiles would be the one who could truly channel all the power the Hale land and the Nemeton are capable of producing. But he can’t do that if he’s dead. Seth would have waited until Stiles presented with his powers and sought out Seth himself. He wanted Stiles to choose this life for himself because he believed that only then would be truly protect our pack the way he was supposed to. Of course, my dearest brother-in-law never counted on Kate or the fire.”

It’s a lot to take in but on some fundamental level, Stiles feels oddly calm in knowing that even if the Hales were still alive, even if Laura had never died, even if Scott had never been bit as a result of Peter wanting to build his own pack, Stiles would still be a part of this life. It’s oddly satisfying to know that despite everything, the universe that ensured that the Hale pack and its land would still be protected in the same manner they were always intended to be.

Stiles looks at Derek, who’s determined in looking at everything else but at Stiles. From the downturn of his lips to the way his brows are furrowed in the middle, Stiles knows that Derek’s not happy at the turn of events. Not because it means it’s up to Stiles to ensure his pack’s protection but that it’s _Stiles_ who will always do no matter what it takes to protect those he cares about, even if it meant putting himself in the line of fire.

Ezra, who had wisely chosen to safely keep out of all of this, flips the page absentmindedly. He clears his throat, motioning to the middle of the next page. “Hey, I think I found the ritual.”

Stiles turns back to the journal, skimming over the steps and ingredients provided. From what he could tell, the ritual itself wasn’t too complicated but it did require a fair amount of herbs that Stiles wasn’t sure how to get and of course, it required the presence of Stiles and a Hale wolf at the Nemeton. That’s where the magic is in its most pure form, the entry detailed.

“We need to get these herbs,” Ezra points out, already writing out the list on a scrap piece of paper. He offers it to Stiles but Derek grabs it instead.

“I can get most of these from Deaton and I think my mother kept the white willow bark in the vault so I can get that too,” Derek mutters, leaving before anyone has a chance to say or do anything, the door loudly slamming shut behind him.

“That went well,” Peter says after a moment.

“Is he going to be okay?” Stiles asks, still looking in the direction that Derek had left. He gets an odd tugging feeling in his chest, like he’s missing something, like he’s supposed to go after Derek but he can’t seem to make himself move. He’s exhausted, Stiles realizes.

“He’ll be fine,” Peter replies. He looks at Stiles, eyes oddly serious. “It’s not easy for him to reconcile the fact that the person he loves – the person he’d die to protect – is destined to do the same for him and he can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Stiles gives a jerky nod, because yeah, that does sound like something that would be a real kicker to this whole ordeal. But he doesn’t say anything beyond that, burying himself in rereading about the ritual he has to master in one night.

It’s only when his stomach grumbles an hour later that Stiles realizes he hasn’t had anything to eat in the past few hours. He blinks blearily, closing the journal gently and sets it aside. Stiles gets up, stretching as he does to shake the exhaustion from his body. He pads into the living room to check if Scott and Ezra are as hungry as he is but he stops when he sees the scene in front of him, small smile curling on his face.

Ezra and Scott had each taken to a couch in the living room, both snoring quietly as they slept. Stiles snickers to himself before he can stop it; both werewolves had always adamantly denied that they ever snored and had always refused to believe Stiles. He digs his phone out of his back pocket and it’s then that he realizes that not only should Derek have been back by now but also that there’s a message waiting for him from a private number.

 **> Private, 9:44pm:** I thought I was clear on what would happen if you got in my way, Stiles. I see you need to be reminded of what can happen if you cross me.

Attached was a picture Derek tied to chair, head hanging low with deep, bloodied cuts all over chest.

 

 _Fuck_ , Stiles thinks.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Like I've said multiple times, thank you SO much for all the love you've shown me. I'm so thankful for everything :) Enjoy the chapter!!

“Can we grab anything – _any_ information - from the picture itself?” Ezra asks, looking over Stiles’s shoulder at the picture. He gently takes the phone from Stiles’s shaking fingers and squints at the image.

It wouldn’t do him much good because Stiles had already memorized every pixelated detail in it and there wasn’t anything that could give away Derek’s location. Almost three hours have passed since Derek left and they still have nothing. Scott and Peter had started making phone calls to the rest of the pack but Boyd and Erica were still at the hospital and Jackson and Lydia were still finishing up putting up the ward around the Preserve.

Allison, Isaac, and Chris had begun to look for Derek right away but even they hadn’t found anything. The only details Stiles could take away from the picture message was that it was dark and damp, implying that it could be underground. The root cellar under the Nemeton had been the first place Chris had suggested to look but they’d come up empty on that one. It would have been a foolish idea on Alberich’s part, Stiles knew, but he had still hoped that it could’ve just been that easy.

“Can’t you feel him in the bond? At all?” Ezra asks and it occurs to Stiles that he’d never even bothered to check. He feels dumb, like he’s back to being a seventeen-year old newbie to pack bonds.

“I didn’t even think to check,” he admits, looking at Ezra with wide eyes.

“Check now,” Scott urges.

Stiles nods and closes his eyes, concentrating on the different colored threads embedded at the back of his mind. Feeling out pack bonds was highly dependent on the relationship he had with each member; the threads linking Stiles to Lydia, Allison, Erica, and Boyd were a vivid yellow, those linking him to Isaac and Jackson were a beautiful green, his thread to Scott was a brilliant blue, and the one to Derek was a deep red. When they’d first established the pack bonds, every thread was thick, vibrant, and seemingly unbreakable.

He’s almost scared to see what he will find now but he reaches to his innermost part of himself nonetheless. It takes him longer than it used to but slowly, the different threads begin to materialize in front of him. They’re all tangled up with each other but he raises his hands and smiles when he sees each individual thread tied into a clean knot around each of his fingers. They’re a little thinner now but he’s surprised to see they’re just as effervescent as they used to be.

He ignores them all save for the deep red thread and they all disappear. After all, he doesn’t need them now. Stiles tugs at the deep red thread, hoping to see if it leads to any direction but there’s nothing of that sort. Instead, it shocks him – _literally_. Stiles opens his eyes with a sharp gasp of breath, eyes flashing purple at the thread’s response.

“I can’t tell where he is but he’s in pain,” Stiles whispers, fingers twisting around each other in his lap.

“That’s fairly obvious,” Peter mutters, rolling his eyes. Scott throws him a dirty look.

“You can’t get anything?”

Stiles shakes his head. “There’s nothing, just a dark void. Usually, when I tug on a bond, I can see the pulse reaching out to whomever I’m trying to connect to and I follow the pulse to see where it leads. But when I tried to do it just now, I got shocked instead.”

“So something’s blocking it from traveling to Derek?” Ezra concludes.

“There’s a barrier,” Stiles confirms, nodding.

“Fuck,” Scott breathes.

Peter narrows his eyes at Stiles. “So there’s nothing you can do?”

“I’m getting blocked! I can’t get through it,” Stiles bristles, narrowing his eyes back at Peter, who flashes his blue eyes at him.

“Find a way!” he roars. “What good are you if you can’t help Derek?”

“I’m trying!”

“Are you?” Peter grits through a clenched jaw. He stalks to Stiles, as close as he can get without touching. “Are you sure you’re trying, Stiles? Because last I saw, you were having fun torturing him yourself.”

Stiles parts his mouth in surprise, eyes flaring at the insinuation.

“That was—”

“What? None of my business?” Peter snarls quietly, deathly. “Remind me how you torturing my _nephew_ isn’t my business!”

“Your nephew who’s sister _you_ killed! Your nephew who _you_ fought and tortured!” Stiles yells back. “What the hell kind of right do you have?”

Peter’s eyes flash blue, fangs slowly extending, as he advances towards Stiles, chest heaving with anger. He growls, low and deep, but Scott quickly steps between him and Stiles, holding off Peter with a hand.

“Calm down,” Scott orders.

“You’re not my Alpha, Scott,” Peter growls through his fangs, luminescent eyes still locked on Stiles, who merely sneers at him.

“Calm. Down. We’re going to find Derek,” Scott repeats. Peter gives Scott a contemptuous look but does as he says. Slowly, the fangs recede and the glowing blue eyes turn back to their normal shade. Scott turns to Stiles. “Is there anything you can do?”

“We’re dealing with a highly trained mage who knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows what I’m going to try to find Derek and he’s made sure I can’t do that. So no, I have no idea what the fuck to do,” Stiles bites.

Scott searches his eyes for a brief moment before nodding. “Okay, so that means we have to track him the usual way. Maybe get some deputies involved.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Peter growls, chest heaving. If looks could kill, Stiles has no doubt he’d be on the defense right now but Peter merely backs off, already walking towards the door.

“Peter,” Stiles calls before he can stop himself. The werewolf stops but doesn’t turn. “What did he do to you? What is he capable of?”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a long time but his shoulders are rigid with tension when he turns back. “This man is capable of everything you can do but much worse. He can get inside your head like a worm, muddle up your best memories, and completely break you down. I’d suggest you get to finding Derek as soon as possible, for his sake.”

Stiles’s throat dries but he gives a jerky nod. He turns to Scott and Ezra, both looking just as clueless as he feels. For the first time in years, Stiles doesn’t know how to solve this problem.

“You need to go help Peter,” Stiles tells Scott, who begins to protest almost immediately but Stiles holds up his hand. “I’m serious Scott.”

“I can’t leave you here by yourself,” Scott says adamantly.

“I’ll be here,” Ezra offers, speaking for the first time since the argument. “I’ll keep him safe.”

Scott mulls it over, flicking his eyes between Stiles and Ezra. Stiles waves his hand at him. “I won’t even need him. Him claws, me magic. We’ll be fine.”

Ezra rolls his eyes, snorting. He shoots a thumbs up at Stiles, sarcastic smile on his face.

“Okay, just – you know how to find me,” Scott nods and takes off behind Peter.

“Are things always this intense in Beacon Hills?” Ezra asks after a moment.

“You have no idea,” Stiles mutters. He grabs at the journal he was reading and flips it open to where he’d left off. If he didn’t know the answer, maybe Seth did.

 

A few hours later, Stiles finds himself in the backyard, sitting on the back porch, barely trying to keep it together. It’s almost dawn and there hasn’t been any word on Derek. This is such a joke, he thinks bitterly. There are nine people scouring the entirety of Beacon Hills and none of them can find him. One banshee, one mage, two hunters, and five werewolves and they’ve got nothing.

He clenches his jaw, surges of anger rolling off him in waves. This was not what he was supposed to come back to. He wasn’t supposed to come back to another Beacon Hills terror. His dad wasn’t supposed to be lying in a goddamn hospital bed with his life in the hands of some twisted glorified Voldemort.

Stiles was supposed to come back to his dad suffering from a normal, _human_ medical problem. He was supposed to come back for two weeks, get his dad healthy again, convince him to join him in New York – that’s it. That’s all that was supposed to happen.

Instead, the possibility of Stiles losing not only his dad but also Derek is suddenly becoming way too real and this is _not_ something Stiles is equipped to deal with.

“Are we ever going to talk about what happened with Derek?” Ezra interrupts, dropping down beside him with a cup of tea in each hand.

Stiles remains quiet, opting to glare at the werewolf to show he’s in no mood for talking but Ezra just quirks an eyebrow at him. Apparently late night chats in the backyard are a thing they do now. He pushes a cup in Stiles’s hand and takes a sip of his own when Stiles accepts.

Stiles relishes in the warmth the cup provides him. “Not particularly.”

“Stiles—“

“No, I’m serious,” he says firmly. The tea scalds his tongue as he drinks but it barely registers.

“That doesn’t work anymore,” Ezra reminds him, coolly. Stiles narrows his eyes at Ezra but he remains unaffected. “I’ve had years, okay? Years of you just internalizing everything, years of you walking around all over New York with the ghost of Derek Hale, years of –“

“Oh, I’m sorry, who asked you to get involved? If I remember correctly, _you_ showed up at my doorstep. _You_ were the one that wouldn’t leave me alone, who kept messaging me, who kept bringing me to your pack meetings,” Stiles hisses. “I didn’t ask for you.”

Ezra narrows his eyes at him, nostrils flaring, in the first bout of anger Stiles has seen on him. “That may be true but it doesn’t mean I get blamed for caring about you. I get that I ruined your plan of being invisible but you will never be that, Stiles. Do you get that? You are a walking beacon of your magic. We will always notice you because we are drawn to you!”

“Are you fucking kidding me? So this is all my fault?” Stiles yells, suddenly furious. “It’s my fault that I had to leave Beacon Hills? It’s my fault that I had to leave my dad, my pack, my boyfriend, my _entire life_? None of this is my fault! Yes, okay, you’re right! I lost my shit at Derek and I shouldn’t have! I couldn’t control myself because you know what? It hurts all the goddamn time, Ezra! It hurts to see him, to be near him, because every time I look at him, all I want to do is be with him!

“It hurt because he just stood there and tried to rationalize what he did and why? Because he loved me? Love is not an excuse! He had no right to eve—“ Stiles cuts off, wheezing. His eyes begin to burn with tears, his chest rising up and down in rapid motion as he struggles to breathe. Stiles feels like his lungs are starting to fill with water and there’s no air to breathe – _fuck_ , why is there no air? He clenches his eyes shut, hunching over his knees, and wraps his arms around his middle in an effort to curl in on himself.

He feels a pair of arms wrap themselves around him, tightly pulling him into a hard chest. Ezra keeps one arm winded around Stiles’s middle but uses the other hand to rub small circles over his chest as he rocks them gently side-to-side.

“Count with me,” Ezra murmurs into his ear. “One.”

Stiles shudders but repeats it. “O-o-one.”

“Two.”

“T-t-two.”

“Three – keep going,” Ezra says softly, still rubbing circles.

“Th-three, f-f-four, f-five,” Stiles mumbles around shallow intakes of breaths. He pauses for a moment, relieved when he slowly starts to regain his ability to breathe. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

Ezra stops rubbing circles in his chest but keeps his hold on him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers. “I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.”

Ezra hums. “This is exactly what I mean, Stiles. You haven’t let anyone in for a long time and now you’re losing your ability to cope.”

“I’m not a PTSD victim,” Stiles mumbles, glaring at a patch of grass. “I don’t have to cope with anything.”

“You are coping, dumbass,” Ezra snorts. “Well, you’ve been trying to. You’re back in a town that you left almost ten years ago and you’re bonded again to a pack that severed their ties with you. You had to get over a lot of difficult situations, Stiles, and you’ve never sought help. When I met you for the first time, I knew what you left behind. I didn’t know exactly what happened but I knew it must have been something monumental for a guy who’s loyalty knows no bounds. It’s not easy to leave the people you care about the most in the world. I stuck around because I knew you wanted to get lost in the shuffle and you probably would have.”

“You should’ve let me,” Stiles says bitterly.

“Nope. You needed a friend back then and I was more than happy to be that for you. Sure, I was hoping you’d join my pack but now that I’ve been back here with you, I understand why you never would have – why you _couldn’t_ ,” Ezra corrects himself.

Stiles twists around and realizes for the first time how close they actually are.

“Are you mad at me?” Stiles asks. Ezra gives him a considering gaze like he’s been trying to figure that out this whole time but ultimately he shakes his head.

“No,” he decides finally. “I gave up on you a long time ago and being here with you just cemented that reality so no, I’m not mad.”

Stiles swallows a lump in his throat, nodding slowly before he turns around and leans back against Ezra’s chest, finding comfort once again.

“I thought it would’ve been easier. I thought I left everything back here when I left and I thought I could just ignore everything that went wrong,” Stiles admits, sighing loudly. He’s exhausted. “I shouldn’t have done what I did to Derek. The only thing that proved was that I wasn’t over anything. I wasn’t over Derek, I wasn’t over what happened, wasn’t over anything.”

“The only thing that proved,” Ezra repeats, slowly. “Was that you’re only human.”

Stiles snorts.

“I’m serious. What you did _was_ wrong and it _was_ bad but you did it in a fit of anger and rage. Those, Stiles, are _human_ emotions. Not even you are exempt from them.”

Stiles sighs. It’s weird, he thinks, because for the first time, his chest feels just a little loose.

 

“I think I found something,” Stiles calls out. Lydia looks up from the journal she’s been reading, abandoning it in favor of the one Stiles hands her. “Seth mentions that sometimes mages have the ability to hide certain objects or people. They’d use it for protection, like if neighboring packs ever came to visit and you needed to hide something precious.”

“So it’d be like an illusion?” Lydia surmises, eyes scanning over the page. “Hiding something in plain sight.”

“Exactly like an illusion. They can hide anything behind another object so that it appears like the second object, something that’s common and of no value,” Stiles nods triumphantly.

Lydia bites her lip. “But wolves would be able to sense it probably by smelling it so—“

“So,” Stiles continues, lips quirking up. “When it’s hidden, it should be completely undetectable. Mages of all skills can hide objects but it takes a lot of power and a lot of control to hide an actual person. Because you’re not just hiding them visually; you have to hide their scent, their heartbeat, literally _everything_ that could be used by werewolves to sense a presence.”

Lydia’s eyes light up, mirroring Stiles’s excitement. He pumps his fist in the air, grinning at her.

“Derek’s hidden,” Lydia says, nodding.

“Either somewhere we’d never think to look or somewhere we’d completely miss him,” Stiles affirms. They both pause for all of thirty seconds before the sudden realization hits them and they both jump up, almost knocking the dinner table over.

“The Preserve!” they both exclaim, eyes wide.

“I can’t believe we didn’t think of that,” Lydia breathes, gaping at Stiles.

“You wouldn’t have known what to look for anyways! And it’s perfect because there are so many different scents in the Preserve that Derek’s scent can be intermingled with the smell of rot, decaying matter, the Earth, the animals that we’d never even know! We need to call Scott.”

Lydia nods, already grabbing at her phone from the kitchen counter, fingers flying over the keyboard. She puts him on speaker, holding it out between the two of them.

_“Yeah, Lydia?”_

“Scott, we think Derek’s in the Preserve!” Lydia rushes into the phone.

_“No, we already checked, remember?”_

“No, listen, we think it’s a spell!” Stiles juts in. “He’s hidden somewhere in there but his scent, his heartbeat, even his physical form might have been altered to hide him completely!”

_“So how do we tell when we find him?”_

Stiles and Lydia exchange looks.

“You’re not going to be able to sense him the way wolves usually could but your bond to him has been strengthened thanks to Stiles bonding with the pack again,” Lydia answers, eyes flitting to Stiles who nods in agreement.

“Reach within yourself and find him,” Stiles takes over swiftly. “You need to look for him but the way you look will need to be different. Use your senses but let the magic that ties an Alpha to his Beta take over and lead you to him.”

_“Ah, um – okay.”_

“You’ll know it’s him because every instinct you have – human _and_ wolf – will scream at you. You won’t think it’s true but it will be. Trust your instincts, Scott. You’ll find him,” Stiles reassures him, fumbling into his shoes.

“We’re on our way to meet you there,” Lydia juts in, throwing her phone into her bag just as they rush out the door.

 

It takes them a cool hour to meet up with Scott and Peter but Stiles knows something is wrong the second they do. Stiles and Lydia find them kneeling by a cluster of dead trees, dead branches and twigs surrounding the area. There’s a particularly large broken tree log in front of the two wolves and the second Stiles is within twenty feet of them, he knows that’s it.

He runs towards the log, dead leaves crunching under his shoes, and drops besides Scott. The second his hand makes contact with the log, a spark of electricity flows through his body making him shudder.

He barely feels Scott and Peter pulling back away from them as Stiles closes his eyes, gripping the log with both hands. He concentrates as hard as he can and begins to murmur a few words just under his breath. It takes only a moment but Stiles begins to feel a gentle thrumming just underneath his skin, the familiar feeling of waves of magic flowing down his hands through to the log. Stiles runs his hands over the log slowly, gently; the hard, brittle bark feels rough under his hands as they slowly run over patches of pooled sap in patches where the bark has crumbled away.

The warmth of his hands slowly begins to transfer over to the tree and the log begins to throb with all the excessive energy. Stiles feels a flash of a stark pain just below his heart and he gasps but doesn’t let go, just concentrates that much harder. His entire body begins to crumble forward and he hunches over, practically unable to hold himself up. He can feel Lydia starting to move forward but Scott quickly holds her back, calmly ignoring her outbursts about how much this was hurting Stiles.

Stiles’s head begins to feel light-headed, his breaths slowly getting more and more shallow, as he gets more winded but soon enough, he feels the roughness under his hands fade away into the softness of wispy fur. Stiles takes a deep breath, taking in as much breath as possible, and opens his eyes, giving a dim smile when he sees Derek’s wolf under his hands.

The smile falls from Stiles as quickly as it had appeared because something’s wrong. Stiles’s eyes widen in alarm and he gasps a watery breath, tears pooling in his eyes. Derek’s barely conscious, dark fur matted with blood, and cuts all over his underbelly. He’s curled up in a fetal position on his side, barely managing to take shallow, labored breaths.

“Derek?” Stiles whispers. He gently touches Derek’s head, moving himself just enough so he can place Derek’s head in his lap. “You can’t do this, okay? You don’t get to die on me again.”

Derek closes his eyes, whining as his body shudders in agony. His ears flatten and he burrows his muzzle deeper into Stiles’s lap. “I’m serious, Derek,” Stiles whispers in Derek’s ear fiercely. “You have to live. Please.”

Stiles runs a hand up and down Derek’s side as tenderly as he can. He buries his face into Derek’s fur, resting his forehead on Derek’s. “Please,” he whispers again, weakly attempting to stifle his cries. “Please don’t die.” Stiles hiccups over the last bit and his body dissolves into tears as he breaks down completely.

Derek’s still breathing, albeit barely, and though the wounds on his side aren’t still bleeding, they’re also not healing, which is highly problematic for obvious reasons. Derek’s powerful to begin with and ever since he had mastered his full wolf shift, his power had increased exponentially. Healing from mere flesh wounds should have been easy for Derek and yet from the way they stay open, Stiles realizes Alberich probably poisoned Derek with something.

It’s not wolfsbane, he knows, because the answer is never that simple. If Alberich did his research on the pack – and he did – than he knows that between Allison, Chris, and Deaton, they have every strain of wolfsbane known to the werewolf and hunter community. Stiles barely feels the hand someone places on his shoulder from behind him, keeping his head rested over Derek’s.

The hand he’s been using to rub Derek’s back slowly begins to glow, bright blue vein-like lines snaking from palm and up his arm. It begins to ebb with a slow surge of power, stabilizing and strengthening the more his hand stay in contact with Derek’s body. Stiles raises his head slowly, staring at his hand through blurry eyes, surprised at what he sees.

“Derek?” he croaks, broken. The more he rubs Derek’s side, the brighter the veins on his hand glow. Stiles is so focused on trying to understand what his hand is doing that he doesn’t realize a slow warmth beginning to seep through his legs. Confused, and a little scared, he looks around where they are, twisting around to see where Lydia, Scott, and Ezra stand. They look just as confused but step back like they’re seeing something invisible to Stiles.

Stiles turns back to Derek and the warmth at his feet begins to get stronger. It’s then that he realizes that it’s the Hale land feeding its magic directly to Stiles. The magical energy embedded in the land has always been known to be one of the strongest forces behind healing. He uses his free hand to rub the tears away from his face, starting to concentrate on the power that’s being channeled into Derek through him. Now that he knows what it is, it’s easy to find.

Stiles closes his eyes and just as he did before, he reaches into the deepest part of his mind to where his pack bonds are and smiling brightly when he sees the deep red thread beginning to thicken right in front of him. He tugs at it once again and this time, the pulse travels with a strengthened vigor. He keeps his eyes closed, concentrating as hard as he can on using the land’s magic to heal Derek. Stiles feels Derek shudder under his hand but his breaths are stronger now and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the wounds starting to stitch themselves together.

It only takes a couple of minutes before he feels Derek bumping his muzzle into Stiles’s jaw and he opens his eyes, ready to burst into tears of happiness. Derek’s tongue laps at his jaw, like he’s an overcuddly dog, before he slowly moves away from Stiles, stretching his body as he goes. When he’s finally able to stand stably on his four legs, Derek turns back to Stiles and flashes his eyes blue. He gives a low growl, readying his stance as if to say, _I’m good. Now let’s go finish the job_.

 

When Stiles gives a determined nod, Derek looks to the night sky and howls, loud and powerful.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have zero excuses. 
> 
> New tags have been added. Let me know if I've missed anything! 
> 
> I've come back to this after a year and have tried my very best to make sure there's no plot holes but please let me know if anything is inconsistent as well. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! :)

**** They get into position around the Nemeton. 

Erica, Boyd, Jackson, and Isaac cover the perimeter of the Preserve. Allison takes the small hill just north of the Nemeton to give herself a good vantage point. 

The rest of them spread out around the ancient tree stump, the wolves covering Lydia and Stiles as they crouch by the Nemeton and begin to carve out the runes needed for the ward. Unlike when he was just starting out, Stiles doesn't need reference pictures for the runes; they’re all practically carved into his mind. 

The dirt underneath his fingertips is unusually cold but if Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates hard, he can feel small vibrational pulses with every touch. Almost like the land recognized him and was responding to his magic. 

He smiles to himself but it falls when Lydia catches his wrist and he looks up at her alarmed face. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brows furrowed.

“We don’t have anything,” she whispers with urgency.

“What are you talking about?”

“The herbs, Stiles. The ones Derek said he’d get from the vault. We don’t have them!” 

Stiles widens his eyes. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I can’t do the ritual without them!”

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Ezra asks from where he’s standing. He doesn't look at them, none of the wolves do, but Stiles knows they’re all paying attention. 

“We don’t have the herbs we need for the ritual,” Stiles answers loudly. From his other side, Scott curses. 

“There’s no other way to do it?” he asks, eyes focused on the vast stretch of the trees in front of him. His ears twitch, as if he’s caught a small sound emanating from the forest and his body tenses up, ready for what’s coming, but then eases after a moment or two. 

Stiles and Lydia look at each other. Well—

“There is another way but it’s much riskier,” Lydia starts, getting up and Stiles follows her movements, dusting off the dirt from his jeans. 

“It depends on whether or not the land still recognizes me as its own,” Stiles continues. “Essentially, I’d be using the magic that’s buried deep within the land almost as a channel to help my own.”

“What’s the risk?” Ezra asks.

Stiles looks down at the ground under him, lips pursed in a thin line.

“If it doesn’t like what I’m doing, it can literally rip me to pieces.”

“ _What_?” Scott exclaims, turning to look at him and Lydia, horrified. 

Stiles gives a wary shrug. “I’m using the land’s magic but it’s been rooted by the death of all the Hales so if it believes I’m going to harm anyone using their magic or that I have ill intentions of any kind, it’ll pretty much just blast me into nothing.” 

Derek whines, snuffling against Stiles’s leg. He looks up at Stiles, big dark eyes boring into his, making Stiles pet his head, curling his fingers into Derek’s soft fur. Derek’s eyes glow with bright blue luminescence in response. 

“I know,” Stiles murmurs softly, petting Derek. “I know.”

“We have to decide something now, Stiles,” Lydia presses, making Stiles turn to her. She’s right; they have to decide now. A chilly burst of wind blows past them, making him and Lydia shiver. Derek tenses and moves around Stiles, poising himself for attack at the invisible force. He bares his teeth, a deep growl beginning to emanate from his mouth, waiting for the first sign of attack.

But there’s nothing.

“Stiles,” Lydia murmurs, bringing his attention back to her. They have to decide on a course of action _now_ , Stiles knows, but it’s not like they have any other choice. Without the herbs from the vault, they can’t perform the original ritual. The only option they really have is to use the land as a channel for the power. From the way Lydia’s face softens, Stiles knows she’s come to the same conclusion. 

“You have to do it now,” Ezra calls out, claws popping out. His face twists and in a second, shifts. 

Stiles nods and looks at the runes. The ones they’ve drawn will work just as well but there are a few they need to add, one that require a bit more finesse. He takes a deep breath and kneels. The earth is cold under his fingers, dry and rough from the cold season but as he digs his fingers into the dirt, it begins to warm. 

He closes his eyes, lets the magic within him flow down to the earth, guiding him to finish the runes. He focuses entirely on the runes, lets the magic do the talking for him, so to speak. Stiles takes a shuddering breath; he feels the slow burn of the magic coursing down from his heart through his arm and out his fingers. It takes a little while but he can almost pinpoint the moment the land begins to respond, starting off with a dull weight on his chest that steadily escalates until he feels his lungs close. 

Stiles grits his teeth, not ready for the onslaught of pain. It feels like he’s being tested and he’ll pass so long as he’s able to successfully withstand the feedback of the energy. And so, he hangs on with all the strength he has as he continues painting the earth with his magic. Distantly, he senses Derek nudging against his side and Lydia folding her hand delicately atop his own. Their actions have their intended effect; the pain he felt seconds ago dulls again. Stiles breathes easily, relishes the sensation of being grounded by the pack after such a long time. 

The link closes then and Stiles blinks his eyes open. Everything is bleary for a bit, big white spots dancing around him but slowly, the world comes into focus. The first thing he notices is how reinvigorated he feels; every part of him is lit up with energy, his skin practically vibrating off his bones. 

When he lifts his fingers from the ground, they’re covered with dirt and shaking. His knees feel weak as he stands up, like they’ll buckle under his weight any second now but Lydia quickly slides her hand around his waist, supporting him. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs into her hair. He stays like that, resting his chin on her head, as he regains his strength, taking one deep breath after another. His fingers are still shake at his side and he burrows them in Derek’s thick fur when he sidles next to Stiles. There’s a lightness in his chest that Stiles notices as he looks up at Scott’s concerned face. Behind Scott, Ezra gives him a smile that barely reaches his eyes, understanding everything without Stiles having to explain. 

Stiles looks away, taking a shaky breath. 

“Did it work?” Scott asks. Stiles look at him, vision dusted in mauve; he doesn't need to say much else. 

Stiles disentangles himself from Lydia and Derek, relishing the new-found power. He flexes his hands in front of him, smiling at how they glow a faint azure before the color fades. He begins to say something when the hair on the nape of his neck rises and his shoulders tense. 

“Well done,” a cool voice rings from behind them followed by slow claps. 

Stiles and Lydia turn around, Derek padding in front of them protectively but Alberich remains undeterred. If anything, the smirk on his face grows bigger. 

“I was almost concerned you wouldn’t get to this point, you know,” he says with false concern. Scott and Ezra growl, stepping in front of Stiles and Lydia, forming the first line of defense with Derek. Alberich tsks. “Oh come now, I thought we were going to make this easy.”

Derek bares his teeth in response, saliva dripping down in rivulets, and erect ears pointed forward, ready to attack in every sense. Alberich eyes him with interest, lip curling. 

“Why are you doing this?” Lydia asks, stepping around Stiles. 

“Power,” he answers and it really shouldn’t surprise any of them anymore. 

Everything always came down to power.

Kate and Gerard hunted werewolves not because they were monsters but because they loved the power that came with killing them. 

Peter went mad, bit Scott, and took revenge for his family all the while aching for the power he’d lost from the fire. 

Even Derek wasn’t exempt from the seductive nature of feeling invincible.

Deucalion, the Alpha pack, Jennifer, the Nogitsune—

Everything came down to power. 

Alberich steps forward, an action that makes the wolves growl. Derek’s paws dig into the ground and his body arches, ready to leap forward but he doesn’t even bat his eyes at the threat. 

“I’ve waited too long for this territory and all the power it can give me to be deterred by a pack of Raggedy Ann wolves,” he hisses, flinging a hand out. At first, Stiles doesn’t notice what’s supposed to happen but no sooner does he look at Scott that he feels a wave of dark energy trying to push him back. Though it doesn’t have much of an effect on him, the wolves howl in pain, falling to their knees. Even Derek who was snarling and readying himself for an attack just moments ago is plastered to the ground and curled into a fetal position, chest heaving. 

Only he and Lydia are seemingly unaffected. 

“What are you doing to them?” Lydia yells. She tries to move to where Scott and Ezra lie on the ground, almost catatonic, but Alberich rolls his eyes and flicks a couple of fingers at her and she gasps, eyes flying open with fear and pain. 

“ _Stop!_ ” Stiles shouts and he tries to run to her, only then noticing that he can’t move either. 

Lydia clutches at her stomach, doubling over as her knees buckle under her and she drops down, teeth gritting. 

“Just making sure they don’t interfere in a fight that’s not theirs – for now, anyways,” Alberich answers with a measured patience. Stiles’s heart hammers in his chest and he hopes that Jackson, Erica, and Boyd come soon but as though Alberich knows what he’s thinking, he gives them a thin smile. “Oh don’t worry, the other wolves won’t be interrupting us anytime soon. They’re plenty distracted.”

“You’re hurting them! Stop!” Stiles screams. 

“Oh what does it even matter?” Alberich rolls his eyes. “Why do you even care, Stiles? They threw you to the streets, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t care,” Stiles answers, gritting his teeth. 

Alberich sighs and Stiles tumbles back, released from whatever hold he had on him. “I don’t understand something about you, Stiles. Your friends, your pack, they literally pushed you out of your own town, treated you less than dirt and you still came crawling back to them. Do you know how easy it is for you to just give this town up and walk away to the life you have in New York?”

“Oh so, you’re doing me a favor, is it?” Stiles sneers. 

“I _am_ quite the giving person.”

“You can’t take the power for yourself,” Stiles murmurs, bending down and running a hand through Derek’s fur. His eyes are glazed over, his mind still in shock from whatever Alberich did to them, but Stiles can tell it’s helping. He looks up at the mage, hands still running down Derek’s back. “This land didn’t pick you – it picked me. Even if you steal my power, it won’t recognize you as someone worth protecting. You’re tainted.”

Alberich smiles in a way that makes Stiles’s blood run cold. “That may be true but what if this land didn’t belong to the Hales anymore?” 

Stiles stills. “This has always been theirs,” he croaks. 

“Perhaps. But if I remove all traces of their presence from the land then there’s nothing stopping me from getting what I want.”

Stiles slowly rises to his feet, Alberich’s plan becoming all too clear. 

Derek. He’s the last remaining tie to the Hale land and its magic. 

Removing the presence of the Hales from the land means removing any lasting presence of the family from all of Beacon Hills. With none of the Hale magic tying all that power to the land, it’s up for grabs for anyone powerful enough to keep it tethered to them. 

“You can’t kill him,” he whispers, looking between Derek and Alberich with terror in his eyes. Stiles looks down at Derek, noting how helpless he looks, and his fear slowly twists into rage. When he turns to Alberich, the world is tinted purple. This time when he speaks, it’s with power and he moves in front of Derek, protecting him. “You can’t kill him.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Alberich asks, cocking his head to the side. He snaps his fingers almost lazily and beside him, Derek howls in pain. Almost instantaneously, Stiles’s magic burns in his hand and it shoots out, a ball of fire flying towards the mage. Alberich blocks it easily, smirking all the same. “Finally – it’s about time we start having some real _fun_.” 

He twists his neck and when he looks back at Stiles, any traces of humor are gone, his eyes turn pitch black. Stiles readies himself, his body beginning to vibrate as the rage bubbling inside of him channels itself into magic. Every part of him aches and Stiles knows it’s only a matter of seconds before his magic lashes out. The world around him fades away, his only concern being to protect the pack. He steps forward, the first words of a spell at the tip of his tongue, when Alberich steps aside and he sees a dark silhouette of someone walking towards the Nemeton. 

“You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?” Alberich asks slyly. “How naïve, Stiles.”

Stiles pauses, tilting his head with interest, but ready to attack all the same. It wouldn’t matter who – or what – Alberich called on; nothing would stop him from protecting his pack. The silhouette comes closer and slowly, he starts to make out the details; seemingly human from what he can tell, average build, average height. Stiles stares at the approaching stranger, brows furrowed in confusion, wondering why they don’t seem all that foreign to him. 

It’s only when they step into the clearing that it becomes clear why. Every ounce of magic building up in his body dissipates almost immediately and he stumbles back. 

“Surprise.”

Stiles whirls to him. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him!” 

Alberich gives a placid nod. “And _I_ won’t.”

The underlying meaning is clear. 

His dad slows to a stop beside Alberich. Although he’s looking at Stiles, there’s no recognition of his son in his blank eyes. Every mannerism about him screams _loyal mindless soldier_ at Stiles and well – Stiles’s heart sinks to his stomach. He – there’s no way he can—

“The answer is simple, Stiles. I want the heart of Beacon Hills. I want Derek. Give me what I want and your father lives,” Alberich replies. 

“Don’t do this,” Stiles whispers, crumbling down. Any strength he had leaves him in one fell swoop but Alberich remains indifferent. 

“Your father’s life for Derek’s. The choice is yours.”

 

Time stops. The last of Stiles’s resolve to remain strong breaks and he looks at his trembling hands. He gets to decide who lives; his dad or Derek.

It should be simple. He shouldn't even need to think about it but he does. Stiles looks at Derek and at his dad. The choice should have been simple. And yet, here he is. Actually hesitating because he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t let his dad die but he can’t let go of Derek either. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. 

But maybe Derek understands because he rumbles, moves around Stiles, and approaches Alberich before Stiles can haul him back. Lowering his body to the ground, Derek whimpers but pads forward, ears drawn back. It’s the most blatant form of submission if Stiles has ever seen one. _Take me,_ Derek means to say. _Don’t make him choose. I’m submitting._

“Dere—”

“Well this is barely a surprise,” Alberich says, almost rolling his eyes. 

_No no no no no, this is all wrong. All wrong, all wrong_ …

Waves of rage and panic and then more rage hit Stiles all at once. Sweat pools at his forehead, drip, drip, dripping down the sides of his face and he clenches his teeth. It’s a storm brewing under his skin, a burning desire to kill and protect jolting at him. _Kill and protect, kill and protect_ \- a synchronous cacophony roaring through his mind. Stiles’s heart bellows, lurching and twisting and—

There’s a thunderous sound off in the distance and the skies grow darker. Stiles isn’t sure what happens next but when he opens his eyes - _when did they even close? -_ Derek is panting heavily and his dad—

What little control he thought he has breaks at the sight of seeing his dad crumpled on the ground and he screams, his voice resonating with anger and pain over the boisterous skies. Screams until his throat dries. Screams until there’s not a sound left anywhere in his body. Screams until there’s nothing left in him. 

…and then there’s silence. 

His chest heaves, breaths shallow and fast, and there’s dirt under his fingernails but nothing else matters because his dad is crumpled on the ground, lifeless eyes staring up at the stars above him, body unmoving. Stiles pushes past Derek, only then noticing a second body not too far from his dad’s, split open like it belonged in a horrible slasher movie, but he pays no heed beyond sparing it a cursory glance. 

Stiles kneels on the ground, reaching out to his dad, hands shaking as they find their target. His skin is cooling under Stiles’s touch and his head falls to the side too easily for Stiles to hope that maybe there’s some morsel of life left in his father. Still desperate to cling to the idea that maybe all this has just been some twisted version of a nightmare, Stiles’s and slides down his dad’s body, resting just atop his heart and he closes his eyes to listen, desperate for even the quietest of heartbeats. But there’s nothing. He reaches out with his magic when he tries again, reaches for his dad’s life, but there’s nothing in response. Stiles slides closer to his dad, places his dad’s head on his lap, and it’s not until his vision blurs and he sees little drops falling on his dad’s face that he understands he’s crying. 

His shoulders quake and he leans down, pressing his dad’s face into his neck and oh, does he cry. He cries for all the times he turned down his dad’s offers to come back, cries for all the times he knew deep down in his heart that he should visit his dad, cries for all the times he didn’t get to say _I love you_ enough. He cries and cries and cries, whispering _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ again and again. 

But it doesn’t change anything. 

His dad is dead. 

The best damn person in his life is dead. The best person in the world is dead and Stiles can’t do a damn thing about it.

He clings to his dad tighter. 

_It shouldn’t have been his dad_ is the last thought Stiles remembers having before darkness overpowers him and he lets go. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um let's ignore the fact that it's been one year since I updated. Only one more chapter to go. I cannot be more grateful to everyone who still comments on this fic once in a while to check on it. Seriously -- thank you.

Stiles wakes up cold and alone in his dad’s bed. He doesn’t awaken all at once; at first, it’s the faint fluttering of his eyes, and then it’s the slow filtering of all the noises into his ears - the ticking of the clock, the quiet hum of the hot air moving through the room’s vents, the purr of the occasional car’s engine as it drives by the house. 

For a second, he’s confused to find himself in his dad’s bed but then he remembers. 

_ Give me what I want and your father lives… _

_ Your father’s life for Derek’s. The choice is yours… _

_ It shouldn’t have been his dad. _

Reality comes crashing into him and he’s defenseless against its tides. Wave after wave, his memories begin to flood with every minute, every second, from the night. 

Stiles whimpers, pressing his face against the pillow and curling up into a fetal position, drawing up his knees against his chest. 

Orphan. That’s what he is now. The last Stilinski standing. 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t panic. Maybe the full reality hasn’t settled in him yet. Maybe he’s still hoping that in a world full of werewolves and vampires and magical mages, his father’s death doesn’t have to be absolute. If Peter can come back…

The thought leaves him almost as soon as it occurred. Peter is a werewolf; his reawakening from the dead meant something entirely different and a lot of people had paid the price for that. His dad wouldn’t want that. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, face scrunching together until a free fall of tears start hitting the pillow. And then it starts. 

The gut-wrenching pain, the horror of seeing his dad lying on the ground motionless, the deathly silence that had followed. It all cascades over him, enveloping him, until there’s nothing left. 

He’s not stupid; he knew his dad would die some day. But that day wasn’t supposed to come for at least another twenty years. There were so many things his dad was supposed to experience before his time finally came; Stiles buying his first house, maybe even having a family of his own, making Captain, making his dad proud. 

His dad had always jokes about how much he couldn’t wait to see Stiles raising a kid of his own--he’d finally get to enjoy someone else raising a hellstorm of a kid without having to worry about all the tough parenting parts. As much as he’d love to deny all that, Stiles knew those days of his life would be inevitable and his dad was supposed to be there when they finally came around. 

But now…

Now, he wouldn’t be able to call his dad when tendrils of self-doubt started forming within the darkest parts of his mind. He wouldn’t be able to pick up the phone and moan helplessly about what a terrible father he’s going to be and how his dad ever managed to do everything right from the very beginning. There wouldn’t be a guiding hand, nobody he can turn to when the bad became worse and the worse became ugly. 

Stiles rolls on his back, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes, and tries focusing on his breathing as tears roll down the side of his face. He barely registers the loud grumble of his stomach, the gnawing feeling of emptiness taking over in his mind. 

How long has it been? One night? Two? A week? A tiny voice in his head reminds him that the human body can survive up to three weeks without food, but only a week without water, so definitely less than a week. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, he attempts to get up. Barely makes it off the bed before he falls back on the bed. The next time, he tries to brace an elbow and uses it as leverage to slide himself up the headboard. 

Every joint in his body feels stiff, screaming at him for daring to move. He feels heavy, and as he eyes the door just a few feet away from the bed, he wonders idly if he can even make it off the bed. But he has to try. 

With a heavy sigh, he fumbles off the bed, almost tripping on a couple of empty water bottles-- _ when had those gotten there? _ \--before stumbling out of his dad’s room. 

The rest of the house is quiet, dark, void of any sign of life aside from just Stiles. He should start getting used to the silence now, he supposes. Get used to not hearing his dad’s cruiser turn into their driveway, not hearing the car door slam shut, and the familiar sound of his dad fumbling with his keys in the dark before letting himself into the house. 

His stomach rumbles louder and he flicks it, half-annoyed and half-understanding. Now that his brain has had some time to catch up, it’s almost painful how hungry Stiles is. His hands are shaking, probably from the lack of glucose, as he reaches out to open the fridge. There are a bunch of tupperware containers stacked neatly in the fridge, which is surprising because with his dad in the hospital and Stiles eating out most of the time once he got back, there’s hardly any a need for any real food. 

But as hungry as he is, his stomach also feels testy so he takes a couple of apples that he spies hiding behind the tupperware and bites into them, not even bothering to wash them. There’s also some orange juice so he takes the carton out with a free hand. The apples are sweet and juicy, deliciously so, and it makes him groan with pleasure. He finishes both apples greedily, within five minutes, and chugs the rest of the orange juice straight from the carton. 

It’s not much for food but at least his hands aren’t shaking anymore and he doesn’t feel like his knees will buckle under his weight. 

Stiles runs a hand down his face. What does he need to do now? Funeral arrangements are one thing but he’s not sure he’s ready to tackle that just yet. But speaking of funerals--

He’s not sure he even remembers what happened to his dad’s body. And as though an electric current courses through his body at the realization, he jump-starts, digging around his pockets for his phone. 

Another voice whispers  _ living room? _ in his mind and he runs there, ready to rifle through the entire room. Luckily, it’s right there on the couch, laying upside down. When he flips it over, he’s surprised to see that it’s still charged. 

“I kept it charged,” Stiles hears from behind him and he whirls around in surprise. How had he not heard--

Ezra gives him a wry smile and closes the door behind him, but not quickly enough that Stiles doesn’t see the endless amount of flower bouquets on the porch. He feels sick again; as beautiful and thoughtful as they may be, they’re still just an ugly reminder of the reality. 

“How long--,” Stiles manages to say before he starts coughing, words grating on his throat. Talking feels like a chore. Ezra puts down the bags of groceries in his hands and waits for him to finish. “How long has it been?”

“A few days.” A pause and then, “Melissa’s been bringing over some food. Did you have some?”

Stiles shakes his head, turning back to his phone. There are feet shuffling behind him and he feels a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him down on the couch but he barely resists. He hears the ruffling of the plastic bags and feet padding towards the kitchen. His phone tells him he has 23 missed calls, 34 text messages, and 3 voicemails. A few calls from the same unknown number, several from the BHPD, and others. 

“Everyone knows,” he murmurs, putting the phone away. It’s not a question even if he wants it to be. The shuffling is closer again and then the coffee table is being pushed farther away. Stiles crawls deeper into the sofa, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He looks at Ezra.

“Yes.” 

Ezra’s face is a mask; nothing peeks through. No emotion, no inkling of what he’s thinking, nothing. It’s a well-practiced poker face after years of being around werewolves who can see through even the slightest twitch of the face. After all, a pack’s mage masking heartbeats and scents can only do so much. 

“So it’s real then,” Stiles says with a shuddering breath. 

A small exhale and then, “Yes, it’s real.” 

“Where is he? I want--I want to see him.”

“At the morgue. Doctors at the hospital had to report it since they thought someone stole his body. As of this morning, they have no rational explanation for how his body turned up by the Nemeton.” 

“I--what? I don’t understand.” 

If there was an official investigation, the deputies had to have interrogated someone in the pack. For that matter, they should have talked to Stiles. 

(Not that he’s eager to be named a prime suspect in the death of his dad and the disappearance of the body but it’s routine procedure.)

As if Ezra knows what he’s thinking, he offers Stiles a wry smile and clarifies, “After you passed out that night, Derek and I brought you back to Deaton to make sure you were okay. And also to make sure you had an alibi because we knew the BHPD would look at you first. The rest of the pack dispersed to find out what the doctors at the hospital believed happened with your dad’s body and to keep an eye on the investigation. Scott stayed with your dad and once we had the confirmation from the BHPD that they had no reliable leads, other than you obviously, Scott called it in.” 

“And they didn’t interrogate him?” Stiles asks plaintively. 

Ezra snorts. “Of course they did but they had nothing on him. He told them he had been out for a run when he heard some noise and decided to investigate. Thought a bunch of kids were playing a prank so he turned around to get back on the trail but then saw a body. Turned out to be your dad’s.” 

“That is so suspicious,” Stiles mutters, rolling his eyes. This is why he always came up with the plans. There are at least ten glaring holes in the story that Stiles can see even with such limited information. 

Ezra shrugs. “Sure it is, but again, there was no physical evidence linking Scott to the Sheriff’s death. Almost every single deputy in the BHPD knows Scott personally and knows the relationship he shared with your dad. As much as the case was frustrating, they know Scott is not the guy.”

That’s true at least. Stiles had gotten Scott into a lot of trouble over the years, but none that was as extreme as stealing the Sheriff’s body from the hospital and bringing him to the woods. 

“Besides,” Ezra continues. “It’s not like they saw Scott at all when they reviewed the hospital’s tapes. Not that they saw much of anything.”

Stiles gives him a sharp look. “There’s a tape?”

“Yeah, we saw it too. Got Whittemore’s lawyer dad to get them to hand a copy of the tape over. There’s nothing we could see about how he took your dad.” 

Stiles nods. “They never asked for me?”

“Of course they did. We--actually Scott and Deaton--told them you’d gone down to LA to consult with another cardiologist who was a friend of Deaton’s from college. You were in the air when your dad’s body was reported missing, which is probably why the hospital couldn’t reach you.”

“Seems like you all thought of everything,” Stiles mentions quietly. 

“Lydia came up with the whole story.” Ezra smiles ruefully. “We had to protect you but we also had a missing, but not really missing, Sheriff on our hands.”

“A missing and dead Sheriff.” 

Stiles’s throat closes up once again and he burrows his head into his arms before he starts tearing up again. He takes a shaky breath, and dries his face of any remnants of tears, and gets up abruptly. 

“Stiles--,” Ezra starts.

“I want to see my dad.”

Ezra closes his mouth and nods resolutely. “Sure.”

Stiles grabs his phone off the couch, a new wave of determination flitting through him. He glances at the missed calls list again--23 missed calls and 34 text messages. Not one from Derek.

Go figure. 

When Stiles walks into the station, Debbie freezes in place. She’s on the phone at the front desk, holding it against her shoulder as she takes notes, but then the bell above the entrance to the station jingles and she’s barely looked up, ready to tell Stiles to give her a minute, but drops the phone instead. 

“Stiles,” she breathes, eyes wide. He gives her a weak smile, as she says something about following up later at the phone, and shuffles around the desk to give him a hug. 

He doesn’t mind at all, welcomes it in fact since Debbie was the one that babysat him a lot after his mom’s death. Especially when Melissa wasn’t available. Always made sure he got his homework done and even taught him a few nifty recipes that were healthy enough for his dad to eat. “How are you? Sorry--wait, that was a dumb question, isn’t it?”

Stiles tightens his arms around her. “It’s okay.” 

“God, I--I can’t even begin to--,” Debbie breaks off, eyes welling up, but she takes a shuddery breath and straightens. “What can I do for you, Stiles?”

“I want to see him. Never got the chance, y’know. Say goodbye,” he says. 

“Of course. He’s at the hospital morgue. I’ll get one of the guys to take you in.” 

Before Stiles could say anything else, another voice cuts in. “We have a few questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Stiles squints at him, not recognizing the new officer. He’s young, probably older than Stiles by a few years, but definitely hadn’t been around when he was a kid. Dark hair, light hazel eyes, quiet demeanor, painfully human. 

“Um, Parrish, maybe--,” Debbie starts but Stiles waves her off.

“It’s okay, Debbie. I expected it. Parrish, is it?” At Parrish’s nod, Stiles continues. “Okay, let’s do it. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can see my dad.” 

He follows Parrish into the station to one of the interrogation rooms, ignoring the way a hush falls in the bullpen as he walks by. Diaz, another deputy from Stiles’s childhood, catches his eye and gives him a piteous smile but Stiles pretends he doesn’t see it. 

He hates this part. There are a few new officers, faces he doesn’t recognize, but many of the other deputies were around when Stiles’s mom died and he’s really not interested in seeing those same pitiful looks. 

Stiles takes a seat in the room, folding his hands over the table, as Parrish closes the door behind them. 

“First of all, I’d like to say I’m very sorry for your loss. I--I learned a great deal from your father. He was a great man,” Parrish starts and Stiles admits that it doesn’t sound rehearsed. He seems genuine. 

Then they get started.

The interview, since it wasn’t much of an interrogation, itself was over in under 10 minutes. Parrish asked routine questions and Stiles gave routine answers.

No, he didn’t know who took his dad.

No, he didn’t take his dad. Obviously.

No, he has no idea why someone would want to take his dad and put him in an obscure place in the woods.

No, he has no idea what’s going on. 

And on and on it went until Parrish leaned back in his chair, satisfied. 

“Thanks for coming in,” Parrish says. “I know this is a hard time for you. Unless you have any questions for me, I’m more than happy to take you to see your dad. Maybe you’ll see something we’ve all missed.” 

“You don’t like it, do you?” Stiles asks, tilting his head. “Knowing there’s a piece of the puzzle you’re missing--a piece that’s so important that you can’t see the whole picture without it.”

Parrish gives him an inscrutable look. “I guess.”

“It’s probably why my dad liked you best.”

“He said that?” 

“He never had to. You remind me a lot of me as a kid and I’m my dad’s favourite.” 

Parrish huffs, his lips curling into a small smile. “Followed his footsteps, huh? He never shut up about you. Every time you got promoted to solved a crazy case, it’d be story time for us all.” 

Stiles smiles, the knot in his stomach loosening just slightly. “I’m glad he had you all to look out for him.” 

Parrish’s smile turns sour. “Not that we can do much now. So much for looking out for him.” 

Stiles leans forward slightly. “This is as frustrating for me to say as it is for you to hear, but there are some things that you can’t explain in Beacon Hills. It’s not easy to make peace with this fact but it’s important that we do.”

“That...interesting.”

“It’s still true. Now, can we go see my dad?”

The drive to the hospital is quiet. Stiles settles for staring out the window, letting the storefronts and apartment buildings wash over him. To his credit, Parrish doesn’t try to make idle conversation with Stiles. 

“Coming?” Parrish asks, once they’ve parked and he’s gotten out. Stiles stares at the hospital’s front entrance and slowly exhales. 

“Yeah,” he mutters and gets out. He wonders how many people will stare openly and whisper behind his back this time. “Let’s get this over with.” 

When the medical examiner opens the cold chamber and pulls out his dad’s body, the first thing Stiles thinks is,  _ this is not my dad. _ Darkened sunken-in eyes, dry, cracked lips, skin paler than Stiles thought was possible. 

He wants to turn around and scream that this isn’t his dad, that this was just an empty husk of a person who just happened to look like him. John Stilinski had life; even at his worst, he had never looked so weak. Weak, and yet so placid.

Stiles takes a shaky breath, barely hearing Parrish tell the medical examiner to give them some space. 

“Jesus, dad,” Stiles whispers as he reaches out to touch his dad’s face and as soon as he does, it’s as if someone flicked a switch in him; his composure slips the second and everything that’s happened catches up to him in one split second. He breaks down, collapsing on his dad’s cold body. Everything comes out all at once; the anger, the anguish, the regret. 

The lights begin to flicker around them and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Parrish look around, dazed. He says something to Stiles and leaves, shooting him worried glances over his shoulder. The lights stop flickering. 

“I am so sorry,” he cries, voice barely above a whisper. “I should have been there. I should--I should never have left. I am so sorry.” 

Maybe somewhere amidst this tragedy, there is something to laugh about. Werewolves, hunters, kanimas, Alpha packs, Nogitsunes, Nemetons, banshees, mages, countless other creatures that go bump in the night, but no miracles. 

“We get the worst of it, don’t we?” Stiles murmurs when he lets go. “I always thought if we made it through high school, made it through all that bullshit, that we’d be okay. I thought the worst was over and--fuck, I never should have left. I should have come back, should have tried to make more time for you. I am so sorry, dad. It shouldn’t have been you.

“I love you, dad. You deserved so much better than this old town. You and mom both deserved a lot more than what you got.” Stiles wipes his face, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve. He stares at his dad’s face, memorizing every freckle, every wisp of hair, every line. Slowly, he leans down and places a gentle kiss on his dad’s forehead. It’s cool to the touch. “Wherever you are, I’m glad you two have each other again. Do me a favour and say hi to her for me, okay? I’ll see you both some other day.” 

“My dad was a protector,” Stiles starts, staring out at everyone in front of him. It's a fairly beautiful morning, warm and bright, but the inside of the church is cool. Behind the podium, he clasps his hands together to keep them from shaking. “As a father, he protected me from a lot of things; bullies when I was younger, the pain of seeing my mom suffer, and even from himself when the pain of losing my mom got too much for him. And let’s face it--he protected a lot of you from many of my shit growing up too.” 

Stiles cracks a smile as a few polite titters break the silence, squinting at the crowd. Every seat in the church is full, with many people even standing in the back. It only goes to show how respected and well-liked his dad was, which comes as no surprise to Stiles. 

“But most importantly, he protected Beacon Hills. First as a Deputy, and then as a Sheriff, he spent forty-odd years to help protect all of us. Even when I’d beg him to retire or take care of himself more, he’d always tell me there are people who can’t protect themselves in Beacon Hills. And so, it was up to him to help protect them instead. Uh--you know, my dad--he never backed down from anything. Even if it was a hard case and something just didn’t sit right with him or he was being threatened to let something go, he always stood up for the right thing. 

“And that’s something I will always be thankful for. He taught me how to stand up, how to fight for myself, but really, the most important thing he ever taught me was how difficult it can be to make the right decision. It’ll be hard, maybe it’ll make people hate me, but if I truly believe that I’m making the right decision, that I should do it.”

His voice cracks at the end, and he pauses, if only to take a deep breath before continuing. 

“I hope that in the many years that you’ve all known him, that he’s taught you something just as important that you’ll carry with you.” There’s a loud murmur of assent from the crowd and Stiles looks over at the coffin. “Thanks for everything, dad. You did good.” 

The rest of the service flies by. Melissa gets up to say a few words, along with Scott and a few deputies that started working at the BHPD with his dad. For the most part, though, it’s all a haze. He doesn’t remember much of what anyone says but it’s still nice to see how much of a difference his dad made in their lives. 

When it’s time to bury the coffin, it’s all robotic. He leans heavily on Melissa, who’s held on to his hand tightly throughout the entire church ceremony and follows wherever she goes. 

The only good thing about the day is how nice it is outside--as it should be. It’s all clear blue skies with the typical Californian sun that’s shining so bright, Stiles has to squint to look up. When his mom died, it was raining heavily enough that they could barely hear the minister say the closing prayers by the gravesite. But this--this is nice. His dad loved days like this. 

Melissa tightens her grip on his hand, as if that were even possible, when they get to the gravesite. There’s no gravestone yet; they take some time to build and he wanted it to be made exactly like his mom’s. It seems fitting. 

Even though there’s no rain, Stiles barely hears anything the minister says. On his other side, Scott takes his other hand and rests his head on Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. 

He stares at the coffin as it’s slowly lowered into the grave and then stares some more once the workers start filling it with dirt. He doesn’t know how much time passes but eventually, everyone starts to leave, whispering some variation of  _ I’m so sorry for your loss, Stiles _ or  _ Please let us know what we can do for you _ or  _ We love you, we’re so sorry. _ He doesn’t care. They mean well, he knows, but he doesn’t care enough for it to register in his mind. 

After what seems like hours, the final shovel of dirt is tapped neatly on the grave and the only people still standing are the pack (he doesn’t want to think of the glaring absence of Derek) and Ezra. Stiles lets go of Melissa and Scott and walks closer to the grave, leaning down so he can place his hand on the ground. 

He takes a deep breath, refusing to let his eyes well up again, and says, “Love you, dad. Take care of mom for me.”

Without another word to anyone else, he walks away. 

Stiles...does fine. He’s fine. There’s not much of a memorial service for his dad. A few guys from the station show up to make sure he’s doing okay and Melissa comes by too, with the pack, and they spend a few hours drinking and trading stories. Stiles stays quiet for the most of it, just wants to hear all the crazy shit his dad used to pull when he was still young. Shit that he’d never heard of. 

But eventually they have to leave and Stiles waves them away with a halfhearted smile. Melissa stays for a little longer but he sends her away soon too. He needs to do this on his own. A small part of him, a very tiny part, wishes Derek would have shown up at some point but he never shows. Nobody mentions him and Stiles doesn’t ask. It doesn’t  _ sting _ , but it kind of does. After everything they’d been through, Stiles would have expected him to at least show up for 5 minutes, if only to lurk from the streets, but he doesn’t feel him anywhere close by. So he stops poking at that thread too.

The next two weeks pass by in the same routine. Sleep, wake up, eat just enough so he doesn’t starve, pack up his dad’s stuff so it doesn’t haunt him, figure out what he wants to do next, and sleep again. Most of the stuff he packs gets moved to the basement because there’s no way Stiles can pile those boxes with his mom’s up in the attic. It’s just too stark a reminder that he has nobody now. So he keeps them separate and lets himself pretend he’s not totally alone in the world now. 

His Captain in New York makes him take a leave for as long as he wants. Stiles had worked himself into the ground at the precinct so even when Stiles mentions he could be back in a week, his Captain had threatened to fire him if he showed up in any time less than a month at least. He’s beyond grateful but slowly realizes that going back to New York might mean that he’d have no reason to ever come back again. Which meant he’d have to sell the house and well, Stiles isn’t sure he’s ready to do that either. 

Melissa drops by before or after her shift every day to give him some food. He keeps telling her he doesn’t need to but she looks pointedly at his gaunt face and dark eyes and shoves the tupperware in his hands. Every time she makes him promise to call her if he ever needs anything, even a place to stay if the house gets too much for him, and every time he nods and says he will. He never does. Ezra checks in once in awhile too but with the whole dark magic situation taken care of, he had to return to New York to deal with his own pack.

It’s another two weeks later and Derek still hasn’t shown up.

It’s been a full month since the Sheriff’s death and finally, he decides that enough is enough. 

That morning, he only packs a couple of boxes before he finally notices how bare the living room looks without any of his dad’s littered about. suddenly hit with the urge to leave, Stiles ends up driving right to the edge of Beacon Hills. It’s almost evening so the sun won’t set for a while yet but everything is painted in a faint orange-red-yellow hue. 

He drives and drives and drives until he sees the  _ You’re now leaving Beacon Hills! Thank you for visiting! _ sign. That’s when he finally pulls over to the side of the road, stumbles out of the Jeep, and throws up. Aside from the single road eventually leading to Redding, there’s nothing but trees on either side and Stiles is grateful for the quiet. 

Once he’s sure there’s nothing else moving around in his stomach that might want to make an appearance on the side of the road, he leans against the Jeep’s door and closes his eyes momentarily. He finds a half-full bottle of water (luckily) so he chugs the rest to get rid of the nasty aftertaste. It doesn’t do much but it helps a little. 

Stiles slides down the side of the Jeep, bringing up his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He stares at the edge of the forest and takes a deep breath. How many times did Deaton tell him to meditate when he was first coming into his own magic? Countless times, that’s how many. Slow breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out. It’ll help with the panic attacks too, he was told, and that’s been true. Now that Stiles is more or less able to tell when a full-fledged panic attack will happen, he’s able to fend it off by closing his eyes and focusing on taking long, deep breaths. 

Stiles reaches out with his magic slowly, unsure of what he’ll get in return, and is wonderfully surprised when he feels the deep  _ thrum-thrum-thrum _ of the land under his hand. Strong, powerful vibrations travel through his hand, making him settle for the first time in years. All that magic embedded into the land has been healing, he can practically feel it in his bones, hitting him like a strong morphine drip. 

For the first time in weeks, Stiles smiles.  

He doesn’t know how long he sits out there but by the time he gets back in the Jeep, the sun has already set and the world is becoming darker by the second. It’s practically night when he finally parks the Jeep in his driveway and slowly trudges to the house. 

His stomach grumbles again and he knows this time he has to eat something more substantial than old orange juice and apples. The house is quiet, dark, so Ezra’s probably out, if only to give him some space. If there’s one thing he loves about Ezra it’s that he knows when Stiles needs to be pushed and when he needs to be left alone.  

Stiles takes out one of the tupperware containers and puts it in the microwave, not bothering to check what’s in it. A minute later, the spicy aroma of Melissa’s infamous home cooked chili fills the room. He grabs some in a bowl, eyeing his dad’s liquor cabinet as he takes the first bite, and then decides,  _ well fuck it _ . If he wants a glass of 18 year-old single malt, he’s going to have it. 

He goes through the chili in less than five minutes, realizing after the first spoonful how hungry he really is, and practically guzzles the whiskey right after. It burns as it goes down, leaving a trail of warmth behind it, but Stiles doesn’t mind--welcomes it even. 

One drink becomes two and two becomes three. With every sip, his nerves start settling and as the world becomes hazier, the pain in his heart becomes easier to handle. He’s four more drinks in, holding the bottle of scotch with a lackadaisical grip with one hand as he drinks with the other when the door rings. The door rings? Nope, the door _ bell _ . That’s the doorbell. That rings. 

Stiles sighs, carefully placing the bottle in the middle of the counter so it doesn’t tip over, and shuffles to the door. “Jesus, Ezra, you have the key,” he mutters, words starting to slur together. 

The door _ bell _ rings again just when he whips the door open and--

“You’re not Ezra.” Stiles squints. “You’re Derek.”

“You’re drunk,” Derek says instead, like he’s the newly appointed Captain Obvious. Stiles says as much to which Derek just exhales. “You’re  _ really _ drunk.”

“Nuh uh,” Stiles denies, folding his arms over his chest. Or well--he attempts to. As soon as he lets go of the door, he stumbles forward and Derek catches him easily. “I’ve only had three--no, four--yeah, four drinks!” 

He holds up four fingers to prove his point and then inspects his nails closely. “I think it’s time for me to cut my nails.”

“Right,” Derek mutters and comes inside, righting Stiles in the process, even though Stiles hasn’t invited him in yet. “I’m cutting you off.”

“You can’t just come into my house and tell me what to do,” Stiles grouses, but follows Derek into the kitchen and doesn’t say a word as Derek puts everything away. “Why are you here?”

Derek pauses and turns to him. “Should I leave?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’m asking now.”

Stiles closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples. “Fuck, I’m too drunk for these games, okay?” 

Derek returns to washing the dishes while Stiles drops down on the bar stool, shooting his hands at the counter to stabilize himself when he almost tips over. Once the dishes are done, Derek turns around and places a glass of water in front of Stiles, which he chugs.

“You were right,” Derek says finally. Stiles squints at him. “What you said the other day at the morgue. It shouldn’t have been your dad.” 

_ It should have been me _ is what goes unsaid. 

“How’d you know I said that?” 

“I was following you all day,” Derek answers with an air of nonchalance. Stiles gawks at him. 

“Are you fucking serious right now?” 

“What?”

“So you’ll follow me around like a creep and texting or calling me to make sure I was okay after everything that happened was too much of a hardship?” Stiles demands and there’s the anger. Here we go. “Or coming to the fucking funeral for that matter. It’s been a month, Derek, and you didn’t come at all. You just disappeared!”

Derek refills his glass with water and Stiles chugs it again. 

“What was I supposed to say, Stiles? Should I have texted you that I’m sorry you lost the last of your family? Or should I have said it sucks you lost your dad but hey, at least I’m alive?” 

“But you’re here now.”

“To say I agree with you. It shouldn’t have been--it should have been me. It was going to be me,” Derek asserts. 

Stiles scoffs. “Here we go.” 

“What?”

“This is so typical of you! This whole martyrdom thing you have. If anything, I would’ve thought these past how many ever years would have beaten it out of you, but I guess that’s too much to ask for.” 

“First of all, you should never have to pick between me and your dad. Secondly, it has nothing to do with being a martyr. Can you name anyone who would pick someone else over their own family?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow in question. Okay, that’s fair.

“It shouldn’t have been my dad--”

“Exactly--”

“--but it shouldn’t have been you either, dumbass!” Stiles yells. “Neither of you deserved to be in that position. If it had to be anyone, it should’ve been me.”

Derek rolls his eyes, huffing. “Right, and I’m the martyr.”

“It’s not about being a martyr. Let’s think back to why we’re in this position, to begin with. Who left Beacon Hills? I did. Who refused to come back? I did. I practically starved this place from getting the energy it needs!” 

“Whose fault was it that you left? Ours,” Derek refutes immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who kept you away? We did.” 

“Okay, asshole, let’s go back to the very beginning, then. Who got all of us involved in this mess? Me. That’s right, bucko, it was my genius idea to go hunting for your sister’s body with Scott and my genius idea to abandon Scott when my dad caught us out there. I could’ve easily narked and said he was with me and we both could’ve just gone home, none the wiser.”

“And yet Peter would’ve still been out there and if not that night then another, but eventually, he would’ve bit another teenager. One who may or may not have survived the bite. And if they had survived, the town would’ve been worse off because they wouldn’t have had a Stiles in their life to help them. That teenager probably wouldn’t have been able to resist Peter’s call and there would’ve been a lot more blood.”

Derek’s eyes soften.

“There is no version of this reality that’s better, Stiles. Not unless your presence had something to do with Kate burning my family alive. One way or another, we would have all ended up in the same reality as now or one that’s much worse.” 

Stiles looks away, deflating. “Maybe,” he agrees finally. “I just--does it get easier?” 

“Does what get easier?”

“Being an orphan. Dealing with the guilt. Picturing a thousand different scenarios that could’ve-- _ should’ve-- _ happened instead. Reliving the same moment in your head every passing minute. Does any of that get easier?”

Derek considers it for a second. “Honestly? No.” 

Stiles snorts. “At least you’re honest.”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat it. The guilt alone will kill you if you let it. It becomes this parasite in your head that eats away at you. Constantly. It’ll make you blame yourself, make you hate yourself, make you think you’re not worthy of anything good. Over time, it’ll get heavier and heavier and it won’t stop until you crumble under its weight. If you let it, your guilt will destroy you,” Derek answers. 

Stiles peers at him. “Is that what happened with you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in Derek’s voice. “But if you’re lucky, you’ll find people who’ll help you carry all that weight so you can breathe. And Stiles? You  _ are _ that lucky.” 

Stiles falls quiet again, letting the words sink in. He feels worn down, hit with the type of bone-deep exhaustion he only felt during the  _ really  _ bad cases back in New York. 

“I don’t know how he did it,” Stiles muses. At Derek’s questioning glance, he clarifies, “My dad. I don’t know how he grieved for my mom, organized the funeral, and took care of a broken-hearted kid at the same time. The funeral might be done but what about the house? I can’t live here anymore, not with their ghosts surrounding every corner of every room. But that means I have to sell the house and I’m not sure I can do that either.”

Stiles looks at the white wall by the kitchen entrance, the wall that has faded marks on its edge. Beside each mark is a number; 2, 3, 4, 5, and onwards. It was a tradition his mom started when he was just a toddler. The last height marked is for number 12, the age that Stiles stopped marking his height on the wall. It seemed to have lost its fun after his mom died and it just wasn’t the same without her tearing up every year about how big he’s getting.  

“We’ll help,” Derek says. “You know we will. Take all the time you need and we’ll help you with whatever you need. That’s what a pack does, right?” 

Stiles twists his mouth. “Right.”

Derek frowns but doesn’t say much else. Stiles gulps down another glass of water before reaching for the bottle of scotch. Derek moves it out of his reach, making him glare. 

“I had water. I want more alcohol now. Gimme the bottle,” Stiles snaps. 

“You’ve had enough.”

“You’re not my dad!” The words come out before he can think them through, making Derek wince slightly. Maybe he should apologize for the poor choice of words but it’s not like they weren’t true. “Seriously, dude, either give me my bottle or get the fuck out.”

Derek exhales sharply and moves it within his reach. “Fine, I’m staying then.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes as he grabs the bottle and starts walking to his room. “Do whatever you want.” He stops when he hears Derek follow him. “What’re you doing?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

Derek shrugs. “You said to do whatever you want so I’m following you. I’m not letting you choke on your damn vomit, Stiles.” 

Stiles mutters a few choice words under his breath and stomps upstairs. Stupid wolves wanting to listen and follow directions when they shouldn’t be. 

He walks into his room and flops on the bed, cradling the bottle to his chest and burrowing his feet under the blanket, as he leans against the headboard. Derek’s eyes flick around the room, before sitting on Stiles’s chair. 

“Hasn’t changed much,” Derek says. Stiles shrugs, uncapping the bottle and taking a big swig. Time to get his pity party started. 

“Think Dad was always hoping that I’d come visit more or that I might move back. Or better yet, that I’d show up with someone and he could bring them up here and make fun of all the shit I’d keep in here.”

Derek’s face does this weird thing when Stiles says  _ someone. _ “I -- um -- not that it’s any of my business but is there a someone?” 

Stiles raises a brow, taking another swig. “You’re right. It’s none of your business,” he says. 

“Right,” Derek mutters, looking away. Stiles pretends he doesn’t see how stiff his shoulders become at the response. 

They spend the next hour or so in utter silence. Every now and then, Stiles takes another ‘shot’ from the bottle ( _ hell yeah, bottle to the face, _ he thinks, remembering doing the same thing back in college) until the room starts swirling together in a dark haze and his eyes start fluttering shut, heavy under the weight of alcohol. 

He feels the bottle slipping away from his fingers but doesn’t have it in him to care anymore. Sleep. He should sleep. Sleep is a good thing, right? Yeah, it’s good so he should sleep. 

Somehow he ends up curling into a fetal position on his side. Distantly, Stiles hears feet shuffling around the room and he thinks there’s an intruder before remembering that it’s only Derek. 

“Only Der’k,” he whispers to himself, letting his eyes close. The shuffling stop and then gets closer. Stiles peeks through one eye. Derek’s face is a blurry field of large dots, all hazy and soft. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and cradles his jaw with one hand, thumb caressing Derek’s perfectly stubbled jaw. “Miss’d you. Got sad when--when you did’t come.”

“I’m sorry,” is what Stiles hears. He closes his eyes again but doesn’t let go of Derek. “I should have come but I was ashamed. And thought you’d hate me.”

Stiles snorts softly before opening his eyes fully again, blinking as Derek’s face swims in and out of focus. “Could ne’er hate you. Tried but did’t work.”

“Did you try really hard?” 

Stiles hums. “Real hard.”

“And it didn’t work?”

“Nope. Ezza said you should be a housefly but you’re still just Der’k.” 

“...I see.” 

They stare at each other for a moment and something about the way Derek looks at him makes Stiles wants to turn away. His hand is still on Derek’s cheek, thumb still moving back and forth gently, and instead of saying much else, he lets himself hyperfocus on the minute movement. Derek’s skin is warm under his touch and still has the same soft feeling that Stiles loves-- _ used _ to love--loves?

Stiles frowns and pulls away, which only makes Derek frown in response. The realization hits him almost like a wave of cold water and it comes with the kind of shock you feel through every inch of your skin, the kind that breaks you off from the heaviest of stupors. He gets up in one swift movement and regrets it instantly, whimpering, as his head starts pounding at the sudden movement. 

“Here, drink this,” Derek mutters and hands him a glass of water. Stiles gulps it down, feeling better almost instantaneously. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

“Shut up for a second,” Stiles says. Derek rolls his eyes, making a face, but does as he’s asked. Stiles stares at Derek quietly, like he’s inspecting a new specimen, face all curious and clinical. For his part, Derek stays still and he gazes at Stiles with an intriguing expression on his face. “I--I want to try something, okay?” 

“Uh...okay?” Derek allows, intrigue morphing into weary. 

“Right.” Stiles nods and cradles Derek’s face in both his hands. He pauses for less than ten seconds, like he’s hyping himself up mentally, and seals his mouth over Derek’s. 

For a brief moment, Derek doesn’t respond so it’s all weird and awkward. Maybe this was a mistake, Stiles thinks and is about to pull away when Derek opens his mouth with a gasp and yanks Stiles closer, pulling him pretty much out of bed.

It’s shocking, the kiss, but not in a look-at-all-the-sparks kind of way. More like how natural it feels, like that first breath you take when you’re dragged out of the water after nearly drowning. Stiles shudders into the kiss, opening his mouth even more, and slides completely off the bed and practically onto Derek’s lap, ready to be enveloped by the wolf. 

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters into Derek’s mouth, squeezing his eyes shut at the trail of fire that Derek’s hands leave on his skin as they slide under his shirt. 

The kiss is a lot of things but gentle isn’t one of them. It’s bruising and biting and full of fire but Stiles loves it all. Takes everything that Derek gives and absorbs it greedily. They break apart, gasping for breath, and slowly open their eyes. Their chests heave and it doesn’t escape either of them that they’re both half-hard. 

Suddenly, Derek jerks back, letting Stiles go like he’s hot coal and he just got burned. 

“Derek--”

But Derek’s already shaking his head, eyes wide, and Stiles can see the tell-tale sign of guilt and shame all over Derek’s face. 

“I--I shouldn’t have done that,” Derek croaks. Stiles is still on the ground, confused and bereft, as Derek gets to his feet at a startling speed. “I’m sorry. You’re in a--I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“I kissed you!” Stiles points out. 

“You’re drunk and still grieving. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” Derek snaps, shaking his head and stumbling to the window. “I should’ve stopped you.” 

“Derek, for fuck’s sake--Derek!” Stiles yells, but Derek’s already slid the window up and jumped out. “Goddamit.” 

Stiles takes a deep breath, staring at the window like Derek will materialize out of thin air. 

“Well, nothing like a guy literally jumping out of a window to get away from you after a kiss,” Stiles mutters to himself before crawling back in bed. 

It takes him hours to fall asleep with the phantom touch of Derek’s lips still lingering on his. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me: [tumblr](http://hales-republic.tumblr.com) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/allhalethekings)


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